•A  WINDOW- 
m  -IN    THRUMS 


BARRIE 


LlbKAKT 

INIVn^^TY  OP 
SAN  DIEGO 


4oi4 


J,  M.  BARRIE 


A   WINDOW   IN   THRUMS 


BY 

J.  M.  BARRIE 

A  uthor  of 


The   Little    Minister^'   "  W^n  a    Man's  SingU; 
''Auld Light  Idylls;'  "  My  Lady  Nicotifie," 
Etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

HENRY  ALTEMUS 


Altemus' 
bookbindery 
Philadelphia 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  The  House  on  the  Brae 5 

II.   On  the  Track  of  the  Minister 18 

III.  Preparing  to  Receive  Company.  . .  29 

IV.  Waiting  for  the  Doctor 38 

V.  A  Humorist  on  His  Calling 51 

VI.  Dead  this  Twenty  Years 65 

VII.  The  Statement  of  Tibbie  liirse. ...  Si 

VIII.  A  Cloak  with  15eads 92 

IX.  The  Power  of  Beauty 108 

X.  A  Magnum  Opus 118 

XI.  The  Ghost  Cradle 127 

XII.  The  Tragedy  of  a  Wife 142 

XIH.  Making  the  Best  of  It 153 

XIV.  Visitors  at  the  Manse 164 

XV.  How  Gavin    Birse  Put    It  to   Mag 

Lownie 176 

XVI.  The  Son  from  London 189 


Contents. 


CHAPTER.  ,  PAGE. 

XVII.  A  Home  for  Geniuses 209 

XVIII.  Leeby  and  Jamie 219 

XIX.  The  Tale  of  a  Glove 234 

XX.  The  Last  Night 248 

XXI.  Jess  Left  Alone 261 

XXII.    Jamie's  Home-Coming 272 


A  Window  In  Thrums. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  HOUSE  OX  THE  BRAE. 

Ox  the  bump  of  green  round  which 
the  brae  twists,  at  the  top  of  the  brae, 
and  within  cry  of  T'nowhead  Farm, 
still  stands  a  one-story  house,  whose 
whitewashed  walls,  streaked  with  the 
discoloration  that  rain  leaves,  look 
yellow  when  the  snow  comes.  In  the 
old  days  the  stiff  ascent  left  Thrums 
behind,  and  where  is  now  the  making 
of  a  suburb  was  only  a  poor  row  of 
dwellings  and  a  manse,  with  Hendry's 
cot  to  watch  the  brae.  The  house 
stood     bare,    without     a    shrub,    in  a 

5 


6  B  liminDow  (n  Qlbrume. 

garden  whose  paling  did  not  go  all  the 
way  round,  the  potato  pit  being  only- 
kept  out  of  the  road,  that  here  sets  off 
southward,  by  a  broken  dyke  of  stones 
and  earth.  On  each  side  of  the  slate- 
colored  door  was  a  window  of  knotted 
glass.  Ropes  were  flung  over  the 
thatch  to  keep  the  roof  on  in  wind. 

Into  this  humble  abode  I  would 
take  any  one  who  cares  to  accompany 
me.  But  you  must  not  come  in  a 
contemptuous  mood,  thinking  that 
the  poor  are  but  a  stage  removed  from 
beasts  of  burden,  as  some  cruel  writers 
of  these  days  say ;  nor  will  I  have  you 
turn  over  with  your  foot  the  shabby 
horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept  so 
speckless,  and  Hendry  weaved  for 
years  to  buy  and  Jess  so  loved  to  look 
upon. 

I  speak  of  the  chairs,  but  if  we  go 
together  into  the  "room"  they  will 
not    be  visible  to  you.       For  a  long 


Zbc  "fcouBC  en  tbc  JBrae.  7 

time  the  house  has  been  to  let.  Here, 
on  the  left  of  the  doorway,  as  we  enter, 
is  the  room,  without  a  shred  of  furni- 
ture in  it  except  the  boards  of  two 
closed-in  beds.  The  floorinjj  is  not 
steady,  and  here  and  there  holes  have 
been  eaten  into  the  planks.  You 
can  scarcely  stand  upright  beneath  the 
decaying  ceiling.  Worn  boards  and 
ragii^ed  walls,  and  the  rusty  ribs  fallen 
from  the  fireplace,  are  all  that  meet 
your  eyes,  but  I  see  a  round,  unsteady, 
waxcloth-covered  table,  with  four 
books  lying  at  equal  distances  on  it. 
There  are  six  prim  chairs,  two  of  them 
not  to  be  sat  upon,  backed  against  the 
walls,  and  between  the  window  and 
the  fireplace  a  chest  of  drawers,  with  a 
snowy  coverlet.  On  the  drawers  stands 
a  board  with  colored  marbles  for  the 
game  of  solitaire,  and  I  have  only  to 
open  the  drawer  with  the  loose  handle 
to   bring   out   the  dambrod.       In    the 


8  B  MlnDow  in  XTbrums. 

carved  wood  frame  over  the  window 
hangs  Jamie's  portrait ;  in  the  only 
other  frame  a  picture  of  Daniel  in  the 
den  of  lions,  sewn  by  Leeby  in  wool. 
Over  the  chimney-piece  with  its  shells, 
in  which  the  roar  of  the  sea  can  be 
heard,  are  strung  three  rows  of  bird's 
eggs.  Once  again  we  might  be  ex- 
pecting company  to  tea. 

The  passage  is  narrow.  There  is  a 
square  hole  between  the  rafters,  and  a 
ladder  leading  up  to  it.  You  may  climb 
and  look  into  the  attic,  as  Jess  liked  to 
hear  me  call  my  tiny  garret-room.  I 
am  stiffer  now  than  in  the  days  when 
I  lodged  with  Jess  during  the  summer 
holiday  I  am  trying  to  bring  back,  and 
there  is  no  need  for  me  to  ascend. 
Do  not  laugh  at  the  newspapers  with 
which  Leeby  papered  the  garret,  nor 
at  the  yarn  Hendry  stuffed  into  the 
windy  holes.  He  did  it  to  warm  the 
house  for  Jess.     But  the  paper  must 


XLbe  f)0U3c  on  tbe  JBrae.  9 

have  gone  to  pieces  and  the  yarn 
rotted  decades  ago. 

I  have  kept  the  kitchen  for  the  last, 
as  Jamie  did  on  the  dire  day  of  which 
1  shall  have  to  tell.  It  has  a  flooring 
of  stone  now,  where  there  used  only 
to  be  hard  earth,  and  a  broken  pane  in 
the  window  is  indifferently  stuffed 
with  rags.  But  it  is  the  other  window 
I  turn  to,  with  a  pain  at  my  heart,  and 
pride  and  fondness  too,  the  square  foot 
of  glass  where  Jess  sat  in  her  chair  and 
looked  down  the  brae. 

Ah,  that  brae!  The  history  of  tragic 
little  Thrums  is  sunk  into  it  like  the 
stones  it  swallows  in  the  winter. 
We  have  all  found  the  brae  long 
and  steep  in  the  spring  of  life.  Do 
you  remember  how  the  child  you  once 
were  sat  at  the  foot  of  it  and  wondered 
if  a  new  world  began  at  the  top  ?  It 
climbs  from  a  shallow  burn,  and  we 
used   to   sit    on  the   brig  a  long  time 


lo         B  Tldindovv  in  ^brume. 

before  venturing  to  climb.  As  boys  we 
ran  up  the  brae.  As  men  and  women, 
young-  and  in  our  prime,  we  almost 
forgot  that  it  was  there.  But  the  au- 
tumn of  life  comes,  and  the  brae  grows 
steeper ;  then  the  winter,  and  once 
again  we  are  as  the  child  pausing  ap- 
prehensively on  the  brig.  Yet  we  are 
no  longer  the  child  ;  we  look  now  for 
no  new  world  at  the  top,  only  for  a  little 
garden  and  a  tiny  house,  and  a  hand- 
loom  in  the  house.  It  is  only  a  garden 
of  kail  and  potatoes,  but  there  may  be 
a  line  of  daisies,  white  and  red,  on 
each  side  of  the  narrow  footpath,  and 
honeysuckle  over  the  door.  Life  is 
not  always  hard,  even  after  backs  grow 
bent,  and  we  know  that  all  braes  lead 
only  to  the  grave. 

This  is  Jess'  window.  For  more  than 
twenty  years  she  had  not  been  able  to 
go  so  far  as  the  door,  and  only  once 
while  I  knew  her  was  she  ben  in   the 


Zbc  t30U6c  on  tbc  Brae.         n 

room.  With  her  husband,  Hendry,  or 
their  only  daug^hter,  Leeby,  to  lean 
upon,  and  her  hand  ckitching  her  staff, 
she  took  twice  a  day,  when  she  was 
strong,  the  journey  between  her  bed 
and  the  winch)w  where  stood  her  chair. 
She  did  not  He  there  looking  at  the  spar- 
rows or  at  Leeby  redding  up  the  house, 
and  I  hardly  ever  heard  her  complain. 
All  the  sewing  was  done  by  her;  she 
often  baked  on  a  table  pushed  close  to 
the  window,  and  by  leaning  forward 
she  could  stir  the  porridge.  Leeby 
was  seldom  off  her  feet,  but  I  do  not 
know  that  she  did  more  than  Jess,  who 
liked  to  tell  me,  when  she  had  a  mo- 
ment to  spare,  that  she  had  a  terrible 
lot  to  be  thankful  for. 

To  those  who  dwell  in  great  cities 
Thrums  is  only  a  small  place,  but  what 
a  clatter  of  life  it  has  for  me  when  I 
come  to  it  from  my  school-house  in  the 
glen.      Had  my  lot  been  cast  in  a  town 


12  B  lUiuctow  in  Cbrum^. 

I  would  no  doubt  have  soug:ht  country 
parts  during:  my  September  holiday, 
but  the  school-house  is  quiet  even  when 
the  summer  takes  brakes  full  of  sports- 
men and  others  past  the  top  of  my  foot- 
path, and  I  was  always  light-hearted 
when  Craigiebuckles  cart  bore  me 
into  the  din  of  Thrums.  I  only  once 
stayed  during-  the  whole  oi  my  holiday 
at  the  house  on  the  brae,  but  I  knew 
its  inmates  for  many  years,  including 
Jamie,  the  son.  who  was  a  barber  in 
London.  Of  their  ancestry  I  never 
heard.  "With  us  it  was  only  some  of 
the  articles  of  furniture,  or  perhaps  a 
snuff-muil.  that  had  a  genealogical  tree. 
In  the  house  on  the  brae  was  a  great 
kettle,  called  the  boiler,  that  was  said 
to  be  fifty  years  old  in  the  days  of 
Hendry "s  grandfather,  of  whom  noth- 
ing more  is  known.  Jess'  chair,  which 
had  carved  arms  and  a  seat  stuffed  with 
rags,  had  been  Snecky  Hobart's  father's 


Zbc  "bouac  on  tbe  J6rac.         13 

before  it  was  hers,  and  old  Snecky 
bought  it  at  a  roup  in  the  Tenements. 
Jess'  rarest  possession  was,  perhaps, 
the  christening  robe  that  even  people 
at  a  distance  came  to  borrow.  Her 
mother  could  count  up  a  hundred  per- 
sons who  had  been  baptized  in  it. 

Every  one  of  the  hundred,  I  believe, 
is  dead,  and  even  I  cannot  now  pick 
out  Jess  and  Hendry's  grave  ;  but  I 
heard  recently  that  the  christening  robe 
is  still  in  use.  It  is  strange  that  I 
should  still  be  left  after  so  many 
changes,  one  of  the  three  or  four  who 
can  to-day  stand  on  the  brae  and 
point  out  Jess'  window.  The  little 
window  commands  the  incline  to  the 
point  where  the  brae  suddenly  jerks 
out  of  sight  in  its  climb  down  into  the 
town.  The  steep  path  up  the  com- 
monty  makes  for  this  elbow  of  the 
brae  ;  and  thus,  whichever  way  the 
traveler  takes,  it  is  here  that  he  comes 


14         B  "MinOow  in  ^brums. 

first  into  sight  of  the  window.  Here, 
too,  those  who  go  to  the  town  from 
the  south  get  their  first  glimpse  of 
Thrums. 

Carts  pass  up  and  down  the  brae 
every  few  minutes,  and  there  comes 
an  occasional  gig.  Seldom  is  the  brae 
empty,  for  many  live  beyond  the  top 
of  it  now,  and  men  and  women  go 
by  to  their  work,  children  to  school 
or  play.  Not  one  of  the  children  I  see 
from  the  window  to-day  is  known 
to  me,  and  most  of  the  men  and 
women  I  only  recognize  by  their 
likeness  to  their  parents.  That  sweet- 
faced  old  Vv'oman  with  the  shawl  on 
her  shoulders  may  be  one  of  the  girls 
who  was  playing  at  the  game  of  pal- 
aulays  when  Jamie  stole  into  Thrums 
for  the  last  time ;  the  man  who  is 
leaning  on  the  commonty  gate  gather- 
ing breath  for  the  last  quarter  of  the 
brae  may,  as  a  barefooted  callant,  have 


ILbc  1bou6c  on  tbc  JBrae.         15 

been  one  of  those  who  chased  Cree 
Queery  past  the  ]')Oor-hoiisc.  I  can- 
not say ;  but  this  I  know,  that  the 
grandparents  of  most  of  these  boys 
and  girls  were  once  young  with  me. 
If  1  see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  my 
friends  grown  okl,  I  also  see  the  grand- 
children spinning  the  peerie  and  hunk- 
ering at  I-dree-I-dree — I-droppit-it — as 
we  did  so  long  ago.  The  world  re- 
mains as  young  as  ever.  The  lovers 
that  met  on  the  commonty  in  the 
gloaming  are  gone,  but  there  are  other 
lovers  to  take  their  place,  and  still  the 
commonty  is  here.  The  sun  had 
sunk  on  a  tine  day  in  ]\\nc,  early  in 
the  century,  when  Hendry  and  Jess, 
newly  married,  he  in  a  rich  moleskin 
waistcoat,  she  in  a  white  net  cap, 
walked  to  the  house  on  the  brae  that 
was  to  be  their  home.  So  Jess  has 
told  me.  Here  again  has  been  just 
such  a  day,  and  somewhere  in  Thrums 


i6         :a  Tldin^ovv  in  ^brums. 

there  may  be  just  such  a  couple,  set- 
ting out  for  their  home  behind  a  horse 
with  white  ears  instead  of  walking, 
but  with  the  same  hopes  and  fears, 
and  the  same  lovelight  in  their  eyes. 
The  world  does  not  age.  The  hearse 
passes  over  the  brae  and  up  the  straight 
burying-ground  road,  but  still  there  is 
a  cry  for  the  christening  robe. 

Jess'  window  was  a  beacon  by  night 
to  travelers  in  the  dark,  and  it  will  be 
so  in  the  future  when  there  are  none  to 
remember  Jess.  There  are  many  such 
windows  still,  with  loving  faces  behind 
them.  From  them  we  watch  for  the 
friends  and  relatives  who  are  coming 
back,  and  some,  alas  !  watch  in  vain. 
Not  every  one  returns  who  takes  the 
elbow  of  the  brae  bravely,  or  waves 
his  handkerchief  to  those  who  watch 
from  the  window  with  wet  eyes,  and 
some  return  too  late.  To  Jess,  at  her 
window  always  when  she  was  not  in 


Zbc  tonec  on  tbc  :©rac.        17 

bed,  things  happy  and  mournful  and 
terrible  came  into  view.  At  this  win- 
dow she  sat  for  twenty  years  or  more 
looking  at  the  world  as  through  a  tele- 
scope ;  and  here  an  awful  ordeal  was 
gone  through  after  her  sweet,  untar- 
nished soul  had  been  given  back  to 
God 


i8         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ON  THE  TRACK  OF  THE   MINISTER. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  Saturday 
that  carted  me  and  my  two  boxes  to 
Thrums,  I  was  ben  in  the  room  play- 
ing Hendry  at  the  dambrod.  I  had 
one  of  the  room  chairs,  but  Leeby 
brought  a  chair  from  the  kitchen  for 
her  father.  Our  door  stood  open,  and 
as  Hendry  often  pondered  for  two 
minutes  with  his  hand  on  a  "man,"  I 
could  have  joined  in  the  gossip  that 
was  going  on  but  the  house. 

"Ay,  weel,  then,  Leeby,"  said  Jess, 
suddenly,  'Til  warrant  the  minister  '11 
no  be  preachin'  the  morn." 

This  took  Leeby  to  the  window. 

**Yea,  yea,"  she  said  (and  I    knew 


©n  tbe  Uracil  of  tbe  minister.     19 

she  was  nodding  lier  head  saga- 
ciously) ;  I  looked  out  at  the  room 
window^  but  all  I  could  see  was  a 
man  wheeling  an  empty  harrow  down 
the  brae. 

"  That's  Robbie  Tosh,"  continued 
Leeby  ;  "  an'  there's  nae  doot  'at  he's 
makkin'  for  the  minister's,  for  he  has 
on  his  black  coat.  He'll  be  to  row 
the  minister's  luggage  to  the  postcart. 
Ay,  an'  that's  Davit  Lunan's  barrow. 
I  ken  it  by  the  shaft's  bein'  spliced  wi' 
yarn.  Davit  broke  the  shaft  at  the 
sawmill." 

''He'll  be  gaen  awa  for  a  curran 
(number  of)  days, "said  Jess,  "or  he 
would  juist  hae  taen  his  bag.  Ay, 
he'll  be  awa  to  Edinbory,  to  see  the 
lass." 

"I  wonder  wha'U  be  to  preach  the 
morn — tod,  it'll  likely  be  jMr.  Skinner, 
frae  Dundee ;  him  an'  the  minister's 
chief,  ye  ken." 


20         B  TKatn^ow  fn  tTbrums. 

'*Ye  micht  gang  up  to  the  attic, 
Leeby,  an'  see  if  the  spare  bedroom 
vent  (chimney)  at  the  manse  is  gaen. 
We're  sure,  if  its  Mr.  Skinner,  he'll 
come  wi'  the  post  frae  Tilliedrum  the 
nicht,  an'  sleep  at  the  manse. " 

"Weel,  I  assure  ye,"  said  Leeby, 
descending  from  the  attic,  "  it'll  no  be 
Mr.  Skinner,  for  no  only  is  the  spare 
bedroom  vent  no  gaen,  but  the  blind's 
drawn  doon  frae  tap  to  fut,  so  they're 
no  even  airin'  the  room.  Na,  it  canna 
be  him  ;  an'  what's  mair,  it'll  be  nae- 
body  'at's  to  bide  a'  nicht  at  the 
manse." 

"I  wouldna  say  that;  na,  na.  It 
may  only  be  a  student ;  an'  Marget 
Dundas  (the  minister's  mother  and 
housekeeper)  michtna  think  it  neces- 
sary to  put  on  a  fire  for  him." 

"Tod,  I'll  tell  ye  wha  it'll  be.  I 
wonder  I  didna  think  o'  'im  sooner. 
It'll  be  the  ladWilkie  ;  him  'at's  mither 


©n  tbc  ^rach  ot  tbc  /ftint^tcr.     21 

mairit  on  Saml  Duthie's  wife's  brither. 
They  bide  in  Cupar,  an'  I  mind  'at 
when  the  son  was  here  twa  or  three 
year  syne  he  was  juist  gaen  to  begin 
the  diveenity  classes  in  Glesca. " 

"If  that's  so,  Leeby,  he  would  be 
sure  to  bide  wi'  Sam'l.  Hendry,  hae 
ye  heard  'at  Sam'l  Duthie's  expeckin'  a 
stranger  the  nicht?  " 

"  Haud  yer  tongue,"  replied  Hen- 
dry, who  was  having  the  worst  of  the 
game. 

"Ay,  but  I  ken  he  is,"  said  Leeby 
triumphantly  to  her  mother,  "for  ye 
mind  when  I  was  in  at  Johnny  Watt's 
(the  draper's)  Chirsty  (Sam'l's  wife) 
was  buyin'  twa  yards  o'  chintz,  an'  I 
couldna  think  what  she  would  be 
wantin'  't  for !  " 

"  I  thocht  Johnny  said  to  ye  'at  it 
was  for  a  present  to  Chirsty's  auntie  ?  " 

"Ay,  but  he  juist  guessed  that  ;  for, 
though  he  tried  to  get  oot  o'  Chirsty 


22         B  ulinc>o\v  m  Cbrum^. 

what  she  wanted  the  chintz  for.  she 
wouldna  tell  "im.  But  I  see  noo  what 
she  was  after.  The  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to 
bide  wi*  them,  and  Chirsty  had  bocht 
the  chintz  to  cover  the  airm-chair  wi". 
It's  ane  o"  thae  hair-bottomed  chairs, 
but  terrible  torn,  so  she'll  hae  covered 
it  for  'im  to  sit  on.  ' 

'•'  I  wouldna  wonder  but  ye're  richt, 
Leeby  :  for  Chirsty  would  be  in  an  on- 
common  fluster  if  she  thocht  the  lad's 
mither  was  likely  to  hear  'at  her  best 
chair  was  torn.  Ay,  ay,  bein'  a  man, 
he  wouldna  think  to  tak  aflf  the  chintz 
an'  hae  a  look  at  the  chair  withoot  it. " 

Here  Hendn',  who  had  paid  no  at- 
tention to  the  conversation,  broke  in  : 

'•Was  ye  speirin' had  I  seen  Sam'l 
Duthie  ?  I  saw  im  yesterday  buyin' 
a  fender  at  Will'um  Crook's  roup.'' 

*•  A  fender  I  Ay,  ay.  that  settles  the 
queistion,"  said  Leeby  :  •Til  warrant 
the  fender  as  for  Chirsty's  parlor.     It's 


On  tbc  Crach  ot  tbc  Minister.     23 

preyed  on  Chirsty's  mind,  they  say, 
this  fower-and-thirty  year  'at  she  does- 
na  hae  a  richt  parlor  fender. '" 

"  Leeby,  look  !  That's  Robbie  Tosh 
wi'  the  barrow.  He  has  a  michty  load 
o'  luggage.  Am  thinkin'  the  minis- 
ter's bound  for  Tilliedrum." 

'Xa,  he's  no,  he's  gaen  to  Edin- 
bory,  as  ye  micht  ken  by  the  bandbox. 
That'll  be  his  mither's  bonnet  he's 
takkin'  back  to  get  altered.  Ye'U 
mind  she  was  never  pleased  wi'  the 
set  o'  the  flowers." 

* '  Weel,  weel,  here  comes  the  min- 
ister himsel',  an'  very  snod  he  is.  Ay, 
^Target's  been  puttin'  new  braid  on  his 
coat,  an'  he's  carryin'  the  sma'  black 
bag  he  bocht  in  Dundee  last  year : 
he'll  hae's  nicht-shirt  an'  a  comb  in't, 
I  dinna  doot.  Ye  micht  rin  to  the 
conier  Leeby,  an'  see  if  he  cries  in  at 
Jess  McTaggart's  in  passin'." 

''It's   my   opeenion,"   said    Leeby, 


24         B  MinDow  in  ^bx\xm6, 

returning  excitedly  from  the  corner, 
'''at  the  lad  Wilkie's  no  to  be  preachin' 
the  morn,  after  a'.  When  I  gangs  to 
the  corner,  at  ony  rate,  what  think 
ye's  the  first  think  I  see  but  the  min- 
ister an'  Sam'l  Duthie  meetin'  face  to 
face  ?  Ay,  weel,  it's  gospel  am  tellin' 
ye  when  I  say  as  Sam'l  flung  back 
his  head  an'  walkit  richt  by  the  minis- 
ter !  " 

"  Losh  keep's  a',  Leeby ;  ye  say 
that  ?  They  maun  hae  haen  a  quar- 
rel." 

*'I'm  thinkin'  we'll  hae  Mr.  Skinner 
i'  the  poopit  the  morn  after  a'. " 

**It  may  be,  it  may  be.  Ay,  ay, 
look,  Leeby,  whatna  bit  kimmer's  that 
wi'  the  twa  jugs  in  her  hand  ?  " 

''  Eh  !  Ou,  it'll  be  Lawyer  Ogilvy's 
servant  lassieky  gaen  to  the  farm  o' 
T'nowhead  for  the  milk.  She  gangs 
ilka  Saturday  nicht.  But  what  did  ye 
say — twa  jugs  ?    Tod,  let's  see  !     Ay, 


On  tbe  ^rack  of  tbe  /ibinigter.     25 

she  has  so,  a  big  jug  an'  a  little  ane. 
The  little  ane  '11  be  for  cream  ;  an', 
sal,  the  big  ane's  bigger  na  usual." 

"There  maun  be  something  gaen  on 
at  the  lawyer's  if  they're  buyin'  cream, 
Leeby.  Their  reg'lar  thing's  twopence 
worth  o'  milk." 

**Ay,  but  I  assure  ye  that  sma' jug's 
for  cream,  an'  I  dinna  doot  mysel'  but 
'at  there's  to  be  fower-pence  worth  o' 
milk  this  nicht. " 

"There's  to  be  a  puddin'  made  the 
morn,  Leeby.  Ou,  ay,  a'thing  points 
to  that  ;  an'  we're  very  sure  there's  nae 
puddin's  at  the  lawyer's  on  the  Sabbath 
onless  they  hae  company." 

"  I  dinna  ken  wha'  they  can  hae,  if 
it  be  na  that  brither  o'  the  wife's  'at 
bides  oot  by  Aberdeen." 

"  Na,  it's  no  him,  Leeby;  na,  na. 
He's  no  weel  to  do,  an'  they  wouldna 
be  buyin'  cream  for  'im." 

"I'll  run  up  to  the  attic  again,  an' 


26         B  minDow  in  TTbrumg. 

see  if  there's  ony  stir  at  the  lawyer's 
hoose." 

By  and  by  Leeby  returned  in  tri- 
umph. 

"  Ou,  ay,"  she  said,  ''they're  ex- 
pectin'  veesitors  at  the  lawyer's,  for  I 
could  see  twa  o'  the  bairns  dressed 
up  to  the  nines,  an'  Mistress  Ogilvy 
doesna  dress  at  them  in  that  way  for 
naething. " 

"  It  far  beats  me  though,  Leeby,  to 
guess  wha's  comin'  to  them.  Ay,  but 
stop  a  meenute,  I  wouldna  wonder,  no, 
really  I  would  not  wonder  but  what 
it'll  be " 

* '  The  very  thing  'at  was  passin' 
through  my  head,  mother." 

"Ye  mean 'at  the  lad  Wilkie '11  be 
to  bide  wi'  the  lawyer  i'stead  o'  wi' 
Sam'l  Duthie  ?  Sal,  am  thinkin'  that's 
it.  Ye  ken  Sam'l  an'  the  lawyer  mar- 
ried on  cousins  ;  but  Mistress  Ogilvy 
ay  lookit  on  Chirsty  as  dirt  aneath  her 


®n  tbe  ^racft  ot  tbc  /IMnlster.     27 

feet.  She  would  be  glad  to  get  a  min- 
ister, though,  to  the  hoose,  an'  so  I 
warrant  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide 
a'nicht  at  the  lawyer's. " 

''But  what  would  Chirsty  be  doin* 
gettin'  the  chintz  an'  the  fender  in  that 
case  ?  " 

"Ou,  she'd  been  expectin'  the  lad, 
of  course.  Sal,  she'll  be  in  a  michty 
tantrum  aboot  this.  I  wouldna  won- 
der though  she  gets  Sam'l  to  gang 
ower  to  the  U.  P.  's. " 

Leeby  went  once  more  to  the  attic. 

**Ye're  wrang,  mother,"  she  cried 
out.  "  Whaever's  to  preach  the  morn 
is  to  bide  at  the  manse,  for  the  min- 
ister's servant's  been  at  Baker  Duffs 
buyin'  short-bread — half  a  lippy,  nae 
doot. " 

''Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Leeby  ?  " 

' '  Oh,  am  certain.  The  servant  gaed 
in  to  Duff's  the  noo,  an'  as  ye  ken  fine, 
the  manse  fowk  doesna  deal  wi'  him, 


28         B  "miinDow  In  Q:brums. 

except  they're  wantin'  short-bread. 
He's  Auld  Kirk." 

Leeby  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and 
Jess  sat  for  a  time  ruminating. 

"The  lad  Wilkie,"  she  said  at  last, 
triumphantly,  "  '11  be  to  bide  at  Law- 
yer Ogilvy's  ;  but  he'll  be  gaen  to  the 
manse  the  morn  for  a  tea-dinner." 

"But  what,"  asked  Leeby,  "  aboot 
the  milk  an'  the  cream  for  the  law- 
yer's ?  " 

"  Ou,  they'll  be  hae'n  a  puddin'  for 
the  supper  the  nicht.  That's  a  michty 
genteel  thing,  I've  heard." 

It  turned  out  that  Jess  was  right  in 
every  particular. 


prcpariiui  to  IReccivc  Company.    29 


CHAPTER  III. 

PREPARING    TO    RECEIVE    COMPANY. 

Leeby  was  at  the  fire  brandering  a 
quarter  of  steak  on  the  tongs,  when 
the  house  was  flung  into  consternation 
by  Hendry's  casual  remark  that  he 
had  seen  Tibbie  Meahiiaker  in  the 
town    with    her    man. 

"The  Lord  preserve's  ! "'  cried  Leeby. 

Jess  looked  quickly  at  the  clock. 

"  Half  fower  !  "  she  said,  excitedly. 

"Then  it  canna  be  dune,"  said 
Leeby,  falling  despairingly  into  a 
chair,  "for  they  may  be  here  ony 
meenute. " 

"It's  most  michty,"  said  Jess,  turn- 
ing  on  her  husband,    "'at  ye  should 


30  21  llSHin^ow  in  ^bruma. 

tak'  a  pleasure  in  bringin"  this  hoose 
to  disgrace.  Hoo  did  ye  no  tell's 
suner  ? " 

"I  fair  forgot,"  Hendry  answered, 
*'  but  what's  a'  yer  steer  ?  " 

Jess  looked  at  me  (she  often  did 
this)  in  a  way  that  meant,  "What  a 
man  is  this  I'm  tied  to  !  " 

''Steer!"  she  exclaimed.  "Is't  no 
time  we  was  makkin'  a  steer  }  They'll 
be  in  for  their  tea  ony  meenute,  an' 
the  room  no  sae  muckle  as  sweepit. 
Ay,  an'  me  lookin'  like  a  sweep  ;  an' 
Tibbie  Mealmakcr  'at's  sae  partikler 
genteel  seein'  you  sic  a  sicht  as  ye 
are  !  " 

Jess  shook  Hendry  out  of  his  chair, 
while  Leeby  began  to  sweep  with  the 
one  hand,  and  agitatedly  to  unbutton 
her  wrapper  with  the  other. 

"She  didna  see  me,"  said  Hendry, 
sitting  down  forlornly  on  the  table. 

"Get    aff   that  table!"  cried   Jess. 


prcpaniuj  to  TRcccivc  Company.    31 

"Sec  baud  o"  the  besom,"  she  said  to 
Leeby. 

' '  For  mercy's  sake,  mother, "  said 
Leeby,  ''gie  yer  face  a  dicht,  an'  put 
on  a  clean  mutch." 

''I'll  open  the  door  if  they  come 
afore  you're  ready,"  said  Hendry,  as 
Leeby  pushed  him  ag-ainst  the  dresser. 

"Ye  daur  to  speak  aboot  openin' 
the  door,  an'  you  sic  a  mess  !  "  cried 
Jess,  with  pins  in  her  mouth. 

"Havers!  "  retorted  Hendry.  "A 
man  canna  be  aye  washin'  at  'imsel. " 

Seeing  that  Hendry  was  as  much  in 
the  way  as  myself,  I  invited  him  up- 
stairs to  the  attic,  whence  we  heard 
Jess  and  Leeby  upbraiding  each  other 
shrilly.  I  was  aware  that  the  room 
was  speckless  ;  but  for  all  that,  Leeby 
was  turning  it  upside  down. 

"She's  aye  ta'en  like  that,"  Hendry 
said  to  me,  referring  to  his  wife, 
"  when  she's  expectin'  company.     Ay, 


32  B  "MinDow  in  ^brums. 

it's  a  peety  she  canna  tak  things 
cannier."' 

"Tibbie  Mealmaker  must  be  some 
one  of  importance  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Ou,  she's  naething  by  the  ord'nar' ; 
but  ye  see  she  was  mairit  to  a  Tillie- 
drum  man  no  lang  syne,  an'  they're 
said  to  hae  a  michty  grand  estabhsh- 
ment.  Ay,  they've  a  wardrobe  spleet 
new  ;  an'  what  think  ye  Tibbie  wears 
ilka  day .?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

'at  was  Chirsty  Miller  'at  put  it 
through  the  toon,"  Hendry  continued. 
"Chirsty  was  in  Tilliedrum  last  Teis- 
day  or  Wednesday,  an'  Tibbie  gae  her 
a  cup  o'  tea.  Ay,  weel,  Tibbie  telt 
Chirsty  'at  she  wears  hose  ilka  day." 

"Wears  hose  ?  " 

"  Ay.  It's  some  michty  grand  kind 
o'  stockin'.  I  never  heard  o't  in  this 
toon.  Na,  there's  naebody  in  Thrums 
'at  wears  hose." 


Iprcparfng  to  IReceivc  Company.    33 

'  *  And  who  did  Tibbie  get  ?  "  I  asked  ; 
for  in  Thrums  they  say,  "Wha  did 
she  get  ?  "  and  '*  Wha  did  he  tak  ?  " 

"  His  name's  Davit  Curly.  Ou,  a 
crittur  fu'  o'  maggots,  an'  nae  great 
match,  for  he's  juist  the  Tilliedrum 
bill-sticker."' 

At  this  moment  Jess  shouted  from 
her  chair  (she  was  burnishing  the  so- 
ciety teapot  as  she  spoke),  ''  Mind, 
Hendry  McQumpha,  'at  upon  nae  con- 
dition are  ye  to  mention  the  bill-stickin' 
afore  Tibbie  !  " 

"Tibbie,"  Hendry  explained  to  me, 
"is  a  terrible  vain  tid,  an'  doesna 
think  the  bill-stickin' genteel.  Ay,  they 
say  'at  if  she  meets  Davit  in  the  street 
wi'  his  paste-pot  an'  the  brush  in  his 
hands  she  pretends  no  to  ken  'im." 

Every  time  Jess  paused  to  think  she 
cried  up  orders,  such  as — 

"  Dinna  call  her   Tibbie,   mind  ye. 
Always  address  her  as  Mistress  Curly." 
3 


34 


B  IClinDow  in  XTbrums. 


"Shak'  hands  wi'  baith  o'  them,  an' 
say  ye  hope  they're  in  the  enjoyment 
o'  guid  health." 

"  Dinna  put  yer  feet  on  the  table." 

**  Mind,  you're  no'  to  mention  'at  ye 
kent  they  were  in  the  toon." 

''When  onybody  passes  ye  yer  tea 
say,  'Thank  ye.'" 

"Dinna  stir  yer  tea  as  if  ye  was 
churnin'  butter,  nor  let  on  'at  the 
scones  is  no  our  ain  bakin'. " 

"  If  Tibbie  says  onything  aboot  the 
china  yer  no  to  say  'at  we  dinna  use 
it  ilka  day. " 

"Dinna  lean  back  in  the  big  chair, 
for  it's  broken,  an'  Leeby's  gi'en  it  a 
lick  o'  glue  this  meenute. " 

"  When  Leeby  gies  ye  a  kick  aneath 
the  table,  that'll  be  a  sign  to  ye  to  say 
grace. " 

Hendry  looked  at  me  apologetically 
while  these  instructions  came  up. 

"  I  winna  dive  my  head  wi'  sic  non- 


preparing  to  "Kcccive  Company.    35 

sense, "  he  said;  ''it's  no  for  a  man 
body  to  be  sae  crammed  fu'  o'  man- 
ners. " 

"  Come  awa  doon,"  Jess  shouted  to 
him,   "  an'  put  on  a  clean  dickey." 

"  I'll  better  do't  to  please  her,"  said 
Hendry,  ''though  for  my  ain  part  I 
dinna  like  the  feel  o'  a  dickey  on  week- 
days. Na,  they  mak's  think  it's  the 
Sabbath. " 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  I  went 
downstairs  to  see  how  the  preparations 
were  prog-ressing-.  Fresh  muslin  cur- 
tains had  been  put  up  in  the  room. 
The  grand  footstool,  worked  by  Leeby, 
was  so  placed  that  Tibbie  could  not 
help  seeing  it  ;  and  a  fine  cambric 
handkerchief,  of  which  Jess  was  very 
proud,  was  hangmg  out  of  a  drawer  as 
if  by  accident.  An  antimacassar  lying 
carelessly  on  the  seat  of  a  chair  con- 
cealed a  rent  in  the  horse-hair,  and  the 
china   ornaments  on  the    mantelpiece 


36         B  Minnow  In  XTbrums. 

were  so  placed  that  they  looked  whole. 
Leeby's  black  merino  was  hanging 
near  the  window  in  a  good  light,  and 
Jess' Sabbath  bonnet,  which  was  never 
worn,  occupied  a  nail  beside  it.  The 
tea-things  stood  on  a  tray  in  the  kitchen 
bed,  whence  they  could  be  quickly 
brought  into  the  room,  just  as  if  they 
were  always  ready  to  be  used  daily. 
Leeby,  as  yet  en  deshabille,  was  shav- 
ing her  father  at  a  tremendous  rate,  and 
Jess,  looking  as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  was 
ready  to  receive  the  visitors.  She  was 
peering  through  the  tiny  window-blind 
looking  for  them. 

"Be  cautious,  Leeby,"  Hendry  was 
saying,  when  Jess  shook  her  hand 
at  him.  "Wheesht,"  she  whispered; 
"■  they're  comin'." 

Hendry  was  hustled  into  his  Sabbath 
coat,  and  then  came  a  tap  at  the  door, 
a  very  genteel  tap.  Jess  nodded  to 
Leeby,  who  softly  shoved  Hendry  into 
the  room. 


IPrepartiifl  to  IRcceivc  Compani^.    37 

The  tap  was  repeated,  but  Leeby 
pushed  her  father  into  a  chair  and 
thrust  Barrow's  Sermons  open  into  his 
hand.  Then  she  stole  but  the  house, 
and  swiftly  buttoned  her  wrapper, 
speaking  to  Jess  by  nods  the  while. 
There  was  a  third  knock,  whereupon 
Jess  said,  in  a  loud,  Englishy  voice  : 

"Was  that  not  a  chap  (knock)  at 
the  door  ?  " 

Hendry  was  about  to  reply,  but  she 
shook  her  fist  at  him.  Next  moment 
Leeby  opened  the  door.  I  was  up- 
stairs, but  I  heard  Jess  say  : 

**  Dear  me,  if  it's  not  Mrs.  Curly — 
and  Mr.  Curly  !  And  hoo  are  ye  ? 
Come  in,  by.  Weel,  this  isr  iii<iep.d, 
a  pleasant  surprise  !  " 


38  B  IDQlinDow  In  tTbrums, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WAITING  FOR  THE  DOCTOR. 

Jess  had  gone  early  to  rest,  and  the 
door  of  her  bed  in  the  kitchen  was 
pulled  to.  From  her  window  I  saw 
Hendry  buying  dulse. 

Now  and  again  the  dulseman  wheeled 
his  slimy  boxes  to  the  top  of  the  brae, 
and  sat  there  stolidly  on  the  shafts  of 
his  barrow.  Many  passed  him  by, 
but  occasionally  some  one  came  to 
rest  by  his  side.  Unless  the  customer 
was  loquacious,  there  was  no  bandy- 
ing of  words,  and  Hendry  merely  un- 
buttoned his  east-trouser  pocket,  giv- 
ing his  body  the  angle  at  which  the 
pocket  could  be  most  easily  filled  by 
the  dulseman.     He  then  deposited  his 


Maitinfl  tor  tbe  Doctor.         39 

halfpenny,  and  moved  on.  Neither 
had  spoken  ;  yet  in  the  country  they 
would  have  roared  their  predictions 
about  to-morrow  to  a  plowman  half 
a  field  away. 

Dulse  is  roasted  by  twisting  it  round 
the  tongs  fired  to  a  red-heat,  and  the 
house  was  soon  heavy  with  the  smell 
of  burning  sea- weed.  Leeby  was  at 
the  dresser  munching  it  from  a  broth- 
plate,  while  Hendry,  on  his  knees  at 
the  fireplace,  gingerly  tore  off  the 
blades  of  dulse  that  were  sticking  to  the 
tongs,  and  licked  his  singed  fingers. 

"Whaur's  yer  mother.?"  he  asked 
Leeby. 

"Ou,"  said  Leeby,  ''whaur  would 
she  be  but  in  her  bed  ? " 

Hendry  took  the  tongs  to  the  door, 
and  would  have  cleaned  them  himself, 
had  not  Leeby  (who  often  talked  his 
interfering  ways  over  with  her  mother) 
torn  them  from  his  hands. 


40  B  minDow  in  ^brums. 

"  Leeby  !  "  cried  Jess  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

"Ay,"  answered  Leeby,  leisurely, 
not  noticing,  as  I  happened  to  do,  that 
Jess  spoke  in  an  agitated  voice. 

''What  is't.?"  asked  Hendry,  who 
liked  to  be  told  things. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  bed. 

"  Yer  mother's  no  weel,"  he  said  to 
Leeby. 

Leeby  ran  to  the  bed,  and  I  went 
ben  the  house. 

In  another  two  minutes  we  were  a 
group  of  four  in  the  kitchen,  staring  va- 
cantly. Death  could  not  have  startled 
us  more,  tapping  thrice  that  quiet  night 
on  the  window-pane. 

"It's  diphtheria!"  said  Jess,  her 
hands  trembling  as  she  buttoned  her 
wrapper. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  Leeby  looked 
at  me. 

"  It's  no,  it's  no  !  "  cried  Leeby,  and 


maitinfl  tor  tbe  H)octor.         41 

her  voice  was  as  a  fist  shaken  at  my 
face.  She  blamed  me  for  hesitating  in 
my  reply.  But  ever  since  this  malady 
left  me  a  lonely  dominie  for  life,  diph- 
theria has  been  a  knockdown  word  for 
me.  Jess  had  discovered  a  great  white 
spot  on  her  throat.  I  knew  the  symp- 
toms. 

*'Is't  dangerous.?"  asked  Hendry, 
who  once  had  a  headache  years  before, 
and  could  still  refer  to  it  as  a  reminis- 
cence. 

"Them  'at  has  't  never  recovers," 
said  Jess,  sitting  down  very  quietly. 
A  stick  fell  from  the  fire,  and  she  bent 
forward  to  replace  it. 

''They  do  recover!"  cried  Leeby, 
again  turning  angry  eyes  on  me. 

I  could  not  face  her  ;  I  had  known 
so  many  who  did  not  recover.  She  put 
her  hands  on  her  mother's  shoulder. 

*'Mebbe  ye  would  be  better  in  yer 
bed,"  suggested  Hendry. 


42  B  minDow  in  Cbrums. 

No  one  spoke. 

"When  I  had  the  headache,"  said 
Hendry,    "  I  was  better  in  my  bed." 

Leeby  had  taken  Jess'  hand — a  worn 
old  hand  that  had  many  a  time  gone 
out  in  love  and  kindness  when  younger 
hands  were  cold.  Poets  have  sung 
and  fighting  men  have  done  great 
deeds  for  hands  that  never  had  such 
a  record. 

"If  ye  could  eat  something,"  said 
Hendry,  "  I  would  gae  to  the  flesher's 
for  't.  I  mind  when  I  had  the  head- 
ache, hoo  a  small  steak '' 

"Gae  awa  for  the  doctor,  rayther," 
broke  in  Leeby. 

Jess  started,  for  sufferers  think  there 
is  less  hope  for  them  after  the  doctor 
has  been  called  in  to  pronounce  sen- 
tence. 

"  I  winna  hae  the  doctor,"'  she  said, 
anxiously. 

In  answer  to  Leeby's  nods,  Hendry 


XUaititifl  tor  tbc  E)octor.         43 

slowly  pulled  out  his  boots  from 
beneath  the  table,  and  sat  looking  at 
them,  preparatory  to  putting  them  on. 
He  was  beginning  at  last  to  be  a  little 
scared,  though  his  face  did  not  show 
it. 

"I  winna  hae  ye, "  cried  Jess,  get- 
ting to  her  feet,  "  gaen  to  the  doctor's 
sic  a  sicht.     Yer  coat's  a'  yarn." 

''Havers,"  said  Hendry,  but  Jess 
became  frantic. 

I  offered  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but 
while  I  was  upstairs  looking  for  my 
bonnet  I  heard  the  door  slam.  Leeby 
had  become  impatient  and  darted  off 
herself,  buttoning  her  jacket  probably 
as  she  ran.  When  I  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  Jess  and  Hendry  were  still  by 
the  fire.  Hendry  was  beating  a  charred 
stick  into  sparks,  and  his  wife  sat  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap.  I  saw  Hendry 
look  at  her  once  or  twice,  but  he  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say.      His  terms  of 


44         ^  MtnOow  In  ^brums, 

endearment  had  died  out  thirty-nine 
years  before  with  his  courtship.  He 
had  forgotten  the  words.  For  his  life 
he  could  not  have  crossed  over  to  Jess 
and  put  his  arm  round  her.  Yet  he 
was  uneasy.  His  eyes  wandered 
round  the  poorly-lit  room. 

"  Will  ye  hae  a  drink  o"  water  ?  "  he 
asked. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  out- 
side. 

"That'll  be  him,"  said  Hendry  in  a 
whisper. 

Jess  started  to  her  feet,  and  told 
Hendry  to  help  her  ben  the  house. 

The  steps  died  away,  but  I  fancied 
that  Jess,  now  highly  strung,  had  gone 
into  hiding,  and  I  went  after  her.  I 
was  mistaken.  She  had  lit  the  room- 
lamp,  turning  the  crack  in  the  globe 
to  the  wall.  The  sheepskin  hearth- 
rug, which  was  generally  carefully 
packed   away   beneath   the   bed,   had 


•Odaititifl  tor  tbe  Doctor.         45 

been  spread  out  before  the  empty  fire- 
place, and  Jess  was  on  the  arm-chair 
hurriedly  putting  on  her  grand  black 
mutch  with  the  pink  flowers. 

"  I  was  juist  makkin'  mysel'  respect- 
able," she  said,  but  without  life  in  her 
voice. 

This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw 
her  in  the  room. 

Lceby  returned  panting  to  say  that 
the  doctor  might  be  expected  in  an 
hour.      He  was  away  among  the  hills. 

The  hour  passed  reluctantly.  Leeby 
lit  a  tire  ben  the  house,  and  then  put 
on  her  Sabbath  dress.  She  sat  with 
her  mother  in  the  room.  Never  before 
had  I  seen  Jess  sit  so  quietly,  for  her 
way  was  to  work  until,  as  she  said 
herself,  she  was  ready  "  to  fall  into  her 
bed." 

Hendry  wandered  between  the 
rooms,  always  in  the  way  when  Leeby 
ran  to  the  window  to  see  if  that  was 


46         B  "MinDovv  in  ^brums. 

the  doctor  at  last.  He  would  stand 
gaping  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for 
five  minutes,  then  slowly  withdraw  to 
stand  as  drearily  but  the  house.  His 
face  lengthened.  At  last  he  sat  down 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  a  Bible  in  his  hand. 
It  lay  open  on  his  knee,  but  he  did  not 
read  much.  He  sat  there  with  his  legs 
outstretched,  looking  straight  before 
him.  I  believe  he  saw  Jess  young 
again.  His  face  was  very  solemn, 
and  his  mouth  twitched.  The  fire  sank 
into  ashes  unheeded. 

I  sat  alone  at  my  attic  window  for 
hours,  waiting  for  the  doctor.  From 
the  attic  I  could  see  nearly  all  Thrums, 
but,  until  very  late,  the  night  was  dark, 
and  the  brae,  except  immediately  be- 
fore the  door,  was  blurred  and  dim. 
A  sheet  of  light  canopied  the  square  as 
long  as  a  cheap  Jack  paraded  his  goods 
there.  It  was  gone  before  the  moon 
came  out.     Figures  tramped,  tramped 


•QDlattina  tor  tbe  Doctor.         47 

up  the  brae,  passed  the  house  in 
shadow  and  stole  silently  on.  A  man 
or  boy  whistlini^  seemed  to  till  the 
valley.  The  moon  arrived  too  late  to 
be  of  serviee  to  any  wayfarer,  l^very- 
body  in  Thrums  was  asleep  but  our- 
selves, and  the  doctor  who  never 
came. 

About  midnight  Hendry  climbed  the 
attic  stair  and  joined  me  at  the  win- 
dow. His  hand  was  shaking  as  he 
pulled  back  the  blind.  I  began  to 
realize  that  his  heart  could  still  over- 
flow. 

"She's  waur, "  he  whispered,  like  one 
who  had  lost  his  voice. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silently,  his 
hand  on  the  blind.  He  was  so  differ- 
ent from  the  Hendry  I  had  known  that 
I  felt  myself  in  the  presence  of  a  strange 
man.  His  eyes  were  glazed  with  star- 
ing at  the  turn  of  the  brae  where  the 
doctor  must  iirst  come  into  sight.      His 


48         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

breathing  became  heavier  till  it  was 
a  gasp.  Then  I  put  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  stared  at  me. 

"  Nine-and-thirty  years  come  June/* 
he  said,  speaking  to  himself. 

For  this  length  of  time,  I  knew,  he 
and  Jess  had  been  married.  He  re- 
peated the  words  at  intervals. 

"I  mind — "he  began,  and  stopped. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  spring-time  of 
Jess'  life. 

The  night  ended  as  we  watched ; 
then  came  the  terrible  moment  that 
precedes  the  day — the  moment  known 
to  shuddering  watchers  by  sick  beds, 
when  a  chill  wind  cuts  through  the 
house,  and  the  world  without  seems 
cold  in  death.  It  is  as  if  the  heart  of 
the  earth  did  not  mean  to  continue 
beating. 

''This  is  a  fearsome  nicht,"  Hendry 
said,  hoarsely. 

He  turned  to  grope  his  way  to  the 


TaHaitlriQ  for  tbe  Doctor.         49 

stairs,  but  suddenly  went  down  on  his 
knees  to  pray.    .    .   . 

There  was  a  quick  step  outside.  I 
arose  in  time  to  see  the  doctor  on  the 
brae.  -He  tried  the  latch,  but  Leeby 
was  there  to  show  him  in. 

The  door  of  the  room  closed  on  him. 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  I  could  see 
into  the  dark  passage,  and  make  out 
Hendry  shaking  at  the  door.  I  could 
hear  the  doctor's  voice,  but  not  the 
words  he  said.  There  was  a  painful 
silence,  and  then  Leeby  laughed  joy- 
ously. 

"  It's  gone,"  cried  Jess  ;  ''the  white 
spot's  gone  !  Ye  juist  touched  it,  an' 
it's  gone  !     Tell  Hendry." 

But  Hendry  did  not  need  to  be  told. 
As  Jess  spoke  I  heard  him  say,  huskily  : 
"Thank  God  !  "  and  then  he  tottered 
back  to  the  kitchen.  When  the  doctor 
left,  Hendry  was  still  on  Jess'  arm- 
chair, trembling  like  a  man  with  the 
4 


50         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

palsy.  Ten  minutes  afterward  I  was 
preparing  for  bed,  when  he  cried  up 
the  stair  : 

"Come  awa'  doon." 

I  joined  the  family  party  in  the  room  ; 
Hendry  was  sitting  close  to  Jess. 

''Let  us  read/*  he  said,  firmly,  ''in 
the  fourteenth  of  John." 


a  t)umonat  on  bid  CaUinfl.      51 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  HUMORIST  OX  HIS  CALLING. 

After  the  eight  o'clock  bell  had  rung, 
Hendry  occasionally  crossed  over  to 
the  farm  of  T'nowhead  and  sat  on 
the  pig-sty.  If  no  one  joined  him  he 
scratched  the  pig,  and  returned  home 
gradually.  Here  what  was  almost  a 
club  held  informal  meetings,  at  which 
two  or  four,  or  even  half  a  dozen  as- 
sembled to  debate,  when  there  was 
any  one  to  start  them.  The  meetings 
were  only  memorable  when  Tammas 
Haggart  was  in  fettle,  to  pronounce 
judgments  in  his  well-known  sarcastic 
way.  Sometimes  we  had  got  off  the 
pig-sty  to  separate  before  Tammas  was 
properly  yoked.     There  we  might  re- 


52         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

main  a  long  time,  planted  round  him 
like  trees,  for  he  was  a  mesmerizing 
talker. 

There  was  a  pail  belonging  to  the 
pig-sty,  which  some  one  would  turn 
bottom  upward  and  sit  upon  if  the 
attendance  was  unusually  numerous. 
Tammas  liked,  however,  to  put  a 
foot  on  it  now  and  again  in  the  full 
swing  of  a  harangue,  and  when  he 
paused  for  a  sarcasm  I  have  seen  the 
pail  kicked  toward  him.  He  had  the 
wave  of  the  arm  that  is  so  convincing 
in  argument,  and  such  a  natural  way 
of  asking  questions,  that  an  audience 
not  used  to  public  speaking  might  have 
thought  he  wanted  them  to  reply.  It 
is  an  undoubted  fact  that,  when  he 
went  on  the  platform,  at  the  time  of 
the  election,  to  heckle  the  colonel,  he 
paused  in  the  middle  of  his  questions 
to  take  a  drink  out  of  the  tumbler  of 
water  which  stood  on  the  table.     As 


B  Ibumorfst  on  bis  Calling.      53 

soon  as  they  saw  what  he  was  up  to, 
the  spectators  raised  a  ringing  cheer. 

On  concluding  his  perorations,  Tam- 
mas  sent  his  snuff-mull  round,  but  we 
had  our  own  way  of  passing  him  a 
vote  of  thanks.  One  of  the  company 
would  express  amazement  at  his  gift  of 
words,  and  the  others  would  add, 
"Man,  man,"  or,  "■  Ye  cow,  Tammas," 
or,  "What  a  crittur  ye  are  !  "  all  which 
ejaculations  meant  the  same  thing.  A 
new  subject  being  thus  ingeniously 
introduced,  Tammas  again  put  his  foot 
on  the  pail. 

"I  tak  no  creedit,"  he  said,  mod- 
estly, on  the  evening,  I  remember,  of 
Willie  Pyatt's  funeral,  "in  bein'  able 
to  speak  wi'  a  sort  o'  faceelity  on 
topics  'at  I've  made  my  ain. " 

"Ay,"  saidT'nowhead,  "  but  it's  no 
the  faceelity  o'  speakin'  'at  taks  me. 
There's  Davit  Lunan  'at  can  speak  like 
as  if  he  had  learned  it  aff  a  paper,  an' 
yet  I  canna  thole  'im. "  , 


54  B  XUinDow  in  Cbrums. 

"Davit."  said  Hendry,  '•' doesna 
speak  in  a  wy  'at  a  body  can  follow  'im. 
He  doesna  gae  even  on.  Jess  says 
he's  juist  like  a  man  ay  at  the  cross- 
roads, an'  no  sure  o"  his  wy.  But  the 
stock  has  words,  an'  no  ilka  body  has 
that' 

"  If  I  was  bidden  to  put  Tammas' 
gift  in  a  word, "  said  T'nowhead,  '  •  I 
would  say  "at  he  had  a  wy.  That's 
what  I  would  say." 

'•  Weel,  I  suppose  I  have,"  Tammas 
admitted,  "but,  wy  or  no  wy,  I 
couldna  put  a  point  on  my  words  if  it 
wasna  for  my  sense  o'  humor.  Lads, 
humors  what  gies  the  nip  to  speakin'." 

"  It's  what  makes  ye  a  sarcesticist, 
Tammas,"  said  Hendry  ;  ''but  what  I 
wonder  at  is  yer  sayin'  the  humorous 
things  sae  aisy  like.  Some  says  ye 
mak  them  up  aforehand,  but  I  ken 
that's  no  true." 

"  Xo  onlv  is't   no  true."  said   Tarn- 


H  •t)umon»t  on  bis  Calling.       55 

mas,  "  but  it  couldna  be  true.  Them 
'at  says  sic  things,  an*  weel  I  ken 
you're  meanin'  Davit  Lunan,  hasnanae 
idea  o'  what  humor  is.  It's  a  thing  'at 
spouts  oot  o'  its  ain  accord.  Some  o' 
the  maist  humorous  things  I've  ever 
said  cam  oot,  as  a  body  may  say,  by 
themsel's. " 

"I  suppose  that's  the  case."  said 
T'nowhead,  "  an  '  yet  it  maun  be  you 
'at  brings  them  up  ?  " 

''There's  no  nae  doubt  aboot  its 
bein'  the  case, "  said  Tammas,  ' '  for  I've 
watched  mysel"  often.  There  was  a 
vara  guid  instance  occurred  sune  after 
I  married  Easie.  The  earl's  son  met 
me  one  day,  aboot  that  time,  i'  the 
Tenements,  an'  he  didnaken  'at  Chirsty 
was  deid,  an' I'd  married  again.  'Well, 
Haggart,'  he  says,  in  his  frank  wy, 
'and  how  is  your  wife  ? '  'She's  vara 
weel,  sir,'  I  maks  answer,  'but  she's 
no  the  ana  you  mean.'  " 


56         B  TKHinDow  (n  ^brums, 

''Na,  he  meant  Chirsty,"  said  Hen- 
dry. 

' '  Is  that  a'  the  story  ?  "  asked  T'now- 
head. 

Tammas  had  been  looking  at  us 
queerly. 

"There's  no  nane  o'  ye  lauchin'/' 
he  said,  "but  I  can  assure  ye  the  earl's 
son  gaed  east  the  toon  lauchin'  like 
onything." 

* '  But  what  was't  he  lauched  at  ?  " 

"Ou,"  said  Tammas,  "a  humorist 
doesna  tell  whaur  the  humor  comes  in." 

"No,  but  when  you  said  that,  did 
ye  mean  it  to  be  humorous  ?  " 

"Am  no  sayin'  I  did,  but  as  I've 
been  tellin'  ye  humor  spouts  oot  by 
itsel'." 

"Ay,  but  do  ye  ken  noo  what  the 
earl's  son  gaed  awa  lauchin'  at  ?  " 

Tammas  hesitated. 

"I  dinna  exactly  see't,"  he  con- 
fessed,  "but  that's  no  an  oncommon 


B  Ibumorfst  on  bl6  CalUiiQ.      57 

thing.  A  humorist  would  often  no  ken 
'at  he  was  ane  if  it  wasna  by  the  wy 
he  maks  other  fowk  lauch.  A  body 
canna  be  expeckit  baith  to  mak  the 
joke  an'  to  see't.  Na,  that  would  be 
doin'  twa  fowks'  wark. " 

**Weel,  that's  reasonable  enough, 
but  I've  often  seen  ye  lauchinV'  said 
Hendry,  "  lang  afore  other  fowk 
lauched. " 

"Nae  doubt,"  Tammas  explained, 
*'  an'  that's  because  humor  has  twa 
sides,  juist  like  a  penny-piece.  When 
I  say  a  humorous  thing  mysel'  I'm 
dependent  on  other  fowk  to  tak  note  o' 
the  humor  o't,  bein' mysel' ta'en  up  wi' 
the  makkin'  o't.  Ay,  but- there's  things 
I  see  an'  hear  'at  maks  me  lauch,  an' 
that's  the  other  side  o'  humor. " 

"I  never  heard  it  put  sae  plain 
afore,"  said  T'nowhead,  "  an',  sal,  am 
no  nana  sure  but  what  am  a  humorist 
too." 


58         B  TKHin^ow  in  Q:brums. 

''Na,  na,  no  you,  T'nowhead/*  said 
Tammas  hotly. 

'' Weel,"  continued  the  farmer,  ''I 
never  set  up  for  bein'  a  humorist,  but 
I  can  juist  assure  ye  'at  I  lauch  at 
queer  things  too.  No  lang  syne  I 
woke  up  i'  my  bed  lauchin'  like  ony- 
thing,  an'  Lisbeth  thocht  I  wasna  weel. 
It  was  something  I  dreamed  'at  made 
me  lauch ;  I  couldna  think  what  it 
was,  but  I  lauched  richt.  Was  that 
no  fell  like  a  humorist  ?  " 

"  That  was  neither  here  nor  there," 
said  Tammas.  *'Na,  dreams  dinna 
coont,  for  we're  no  responsible  for 
them.  Ay,  an'  what's  mair,  the  mere 
lauchin's  no  the  important  side  o' 
humor,  even  though  ye  hinna  to  be  telt 
to  lauch.  The  important  side's  the 
other  side,  the  sayin'  the  humorous 
things.  I'll  tell  ye  what  :  the  humor- 
ist's like  a  man  firin'  at  a  target — he 
doesna  ken  whether  he  hits  or  no  till 
them  at  the  target  tells  'im." 


B  tJumoriet  on  bis  CaUlno.      59 

*'l  would  be  of  opeenion,"  said 
Hendry,  who  was  one  of  Tammas' 
most  stanch  admirers,  "'at  another 
mark  o'  the  rale  humorist  was  his 
seein'  humor  in  all  things?" 

Tammas  shook  his  head — a  way  he 
had  when  Hendry  advanced  theories. 

"I  dinna  haud  wi'  that  ava,"  he 
said.  ' '  I  ken  fine  'at  Davit  Lunan 
gaes  aboot  sayin'  he  sees  humor  in 
everything,  but  there's  nae  surer  sign 
'at  he's  no  a  genuine  humorist.  Na, 
the  rale  humorist  kens  vara  weel  'at 
there's  subjects  withoot  a  spark  o' 
humor  in  them.  When  a  subject  rises 
to  the  sublime  it  should  be  regairded 
philosophically,  an'  no  humorously. 
Davit  would  lauch  at  the  grandest 
thochts,  whaur  they  only  fill  the  true 
humorist  wi*  awe.  I've  found  it  neces- 
sary to  rebuke  '  im  at  times  whaur  his 
lauchin'  was  oot  o'  place.  He  pre- 
tended aince  on  this  vara  spot  to  see 
humor  i'  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'." 


6o         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

''Did  he,  man?"  said  Hendry; 
'*  I  wasna  here.  But  what  is  the  origin 
o'  cock-fechtin'  ?  " 

"It  was  a'  i'  the  Cheap  Magazine,"" 
said  T'nowhead. 

' '  Was  I  sayin'  it  wasna  ?  "  demanded 
Tammas.  "  It  was  through  me  read- 
in'  the  account  oot  o'  the  Cheap  Maga- 
zine "at  the  discussion  arose. " 

"  But  what  said  the  Cheapy  was  the 
origin  o'  cock-fechtin' }  " 

"  T'nowhead '11  tell  ye,"  answered 
Tammas  ;  "he  says  I  dinna  ken." 

"I  never  said  naething  o'  the  kind," 
returned  T'nowhead,  indignantly;  "I 
mind  o'  ye  readin'  't  oot  fine." 

"Ay,  weel,"  said  Tammas,  "that's 
a'  richt.  Ou,  the  origin  o'  cock-fight- 
in'  gangs  back  to  the  time  o'  the  Greek 
wars,  a  thoosand  or  twa  years  syne, 
mair  or  less.  There  was  ane,  Mil- 
tiades  by  name,  'at  was  the  captain  o' 
the  Greek  army,  an'  one  day  he  led 


B  "toumonst  on  bis  Calling.      6i 

them  doon  the  mountains  to  attack 
the  biggest  army  'at  was  ever  gathered 
thegither. " 

"They  were  Persians,"  interposed 
T'nowhead. 

"Are  you  teUin'  the  story,  or  am  I  ?  " 
asked  Tammas.  "  I  kent  fine  'at  they 
were  Persians.  Weel,  Miltiades  had 
the  matter  o'  twenty  thoosand  men 
wi'  'im,  and  when  they  got  to  the  foot 
o'  the  mountain,  behold  there  was  two 
cocks  fechtin'." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  "an' 
was  there  cocks  in  thae  days  ? " 

"  Ondoubtedly,"  said  Tammas,  "  or 
hoo  could  thae  twa  ha'e  been  fecht- 
in' ? " 

"Ye  have  me  there,  Tammas,"  ad- 
mitted Hendry.  "  Ye're  perfectly 
richt. " 

"Ay,  then,"  continued  the  stone- 
breaker,  "when  Miltiades  saw  the 
cocks    at    it   wi'    all    their   micht,     he 


62  B  WinDow  in  Cbrums. 

stopped  the  army  and  addressed  it. 
*  Behold  ! '  he  cried,  at  the  top  o'  his 
voice,  '  these  cocks  do  not  fight  for 
their  household  gods,  nor  for  the  monu- 
ments of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glory, 
nor  for  liberty,  nor  for  their  children, 
but  only  because  the  one  will  not  give 
way  unto  the  other. '  " 

"It  was  nobly  said,"  declared  Hen- 
dry; "na,  cocks  wouldna  hae  sae 
muckle  understandin'  as  to  fecht  for 
thae  things.  I  wouldna  wonder  but 
what  it  was  some  laddies  'at  set  them 
at  ane  another. " 

"Hendry  doesna  see  what  INIiltydes 
was  after,"  said  T'nowhead. 

"YeVe  ta'en't  up  wrang,  Hendry," 
Tammas  explained.  "What  ^Nliltiades 
meant  was  'at  if  cocks  could  fecht  sae 
weel  oot  o'  mere  deviltry,  surely  the 
Greeks  would  fecht  terrible  for  their 
gods  an'  their  bairns  an'  the  other 
things." 


B  "bumorist  on  bie  Callinfl.      63 

"I  see,  I  see;  but  what  was  the 
monuments  o'  their  ancestors  ?  " 

"  Ou,  that  was  the  gravestanes  they 
put  up  i'  their  kirkyards." 

* '  I  wonder  the  other  billies  would 
want  to  tak  them  awa.  They  would 
be  a  michty  wecht. " 

*'Ay,  but  they  wanted  them,  an' 
nat'rally  the  Greeks  stuck  to  the  stanes 
they  paid  for. " 

"So,  so,  an'  did  Davit  Lunan  mak 
cot'  at  there  was  humor  in  that  ? "' 

"He  do  so.  He  said  it  was  a  hu- 
morous thing  to  think  o'  a  hale  army 
lookin'  on  at  twa  cocks  fechtin'.  I 
assure  ye  I  telt  'im  'at  I  saw  nae  humor 
in't.  It  was  ane  o'  the  most  impres- 
sive sichts  ever  seen  by  man,  an'  the 
Greeks  was  sac  inspired  by  what  I\Iilti- 
ades  said  'at  they  sweepit  the  Persians 
oot  o'  their  country."' 

We  all  agreed  that  Tammas'  was  the 
genuine  humor. 


64  B  IllIlinDow  In  ^brums. 

**An'  an  enviable  possession  it  is," 
said  Hendry. 

* 'In  a  wy,"  admitted  Tammas,  *'but 
no  in  a'  wys." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  a 
low  voice  : 

"As  sure  as  death,  Hendry,  it  some- 
times taks  grip  o'  me  i'  the  kirk  itsel', 
an'  I  can  hardly  keep  frae  lauchin'. " 


DeaD  tbis  ^wcnt^  HJears,       65 
CHAPTER  VI. 

DEAD    THIS    TWENTY    YEARS. 

In  the  lustiness  of  youth  there  are 
many  who  cannot  feel  that  they,  too, 
will  die.  The  first  fear  stops  the  heart. 
Even  then  they  would  keep  death  at 
arm's  length  by  making  believe  to  dis- 
own him.  Loved  ones  are  taken  away, 
and  the  boy,  the  girl,  will  not  speak  of 
them,  as  if  that  made  the  conqueror's 
triumph  the  less.  In  time  the  fire  in 
the  breast  burns  low,  and  then,  in  the 
last  glow  of  the  embers,  it  is  sweeter 
to  hold  what  has  been  than  to  think  of 
what  may  be. 

Twenty  years  had  passed  since  Joey 
ran  down  the  brae  to  play.  Jess,  his 
mother,  shook  her  staff  fondly  at  him. 

5 


66         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

A  cart  rumbled  by,  the  driver  nodding 
on  the  shaft.  It  rounded  the  corner 
and  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  a 
woman  screamed.  A  handful  of  men 
carried  Joey's  dead  body  to  his  mother, 
and  that  was  the  tragedy  of  Jess'  life. 

Twenty  years  ago,  and  still  Jess  sat 
at  the  window,  and  still  she  heard  that 
woman  scream.  Every  other  living 
being  had  forgotten  Joey  ;  even  to 
Hendry  he  was  now  scarcely  a  name, 
but  there  were  times  when  Jess"  face 
quivered  and  her  old  arms  went  out  for 
her  dead  boy. 

' '  God's  will  be  done, "  she  said,  ' '  but 
oh,  I  grudged  Him  my  bairn  terrible 
sair.  I  dinna  want  him  back  noo,  an' 
ilka  day  is  takkin'  me  nearer  to  him, 
but  for  mony  a  lang  year  I  grudged 
him  sair,  sair.  He  was  juist  five  min- 
utes gone,  an'  they  brocht  him  back 
deid,  my  Joey." 

On  the  Sabbath   day  Jess  could  not 


DcaD  tbi0  Zwcnt^  l^ears.       67 

go  to  church,  and  it  was  then,  I  think, 
that  she  was  with  Joey  most.  There 
was  often  a  blessed  serenity  on  her  face, 
when  we  returned,  that  only  comes  to 
those  who  have  risen  from  their  knees 
with  their  prayers  answered.  Then 
she  was  very  close  to  the  boy  who 
died.  Long  ago  she  could  not  look 
out  from  her  window  upon  the  brae, 
but  now  it  was  her  seat  in  church. 
There  on  the  Sabbath  evenings  she 
sometimes  talked  to  me  of  Joey. 

''Its  been  a  tine  day,"  she  would 
say,  "  juist  like  that  day.  I  thank  the 
Lord  for  the  sunshine  noo,  but  oh,  I 
thocht  at  the  time  I  couldna  look  at 
the  sun  shinin'  again." 

"In  all  Thrums,"  she  has  told  me, 
and  I  know  it  to  be  true,  "there's  no 
a  better  man  than  Hendry.  There's 
them  'at's  cleverer  in  the  wys  o'  the 
world,  but  my  man,  Hendry  ^Mc- 
Qumpha,  never  did  naething  in  all  his 


68         B  MtnDow  In  ^brums. 

life  'at  wasna  weel  intended,  an'  though 
his  words  is  common,  it's  to  the  Lord 
he  looks.  I  canna  think  but  what 
Hendry's  pleasin'  to  God.  Oh,  I  dinna 
ken  what  to  say  wi'  thankfulness  to 
him  when  I  mind  hoo  guid  he's  been 
to  me.  There's  Leeby  'at  I  couldna 
hae  done  withoot,  me  bein'  sae  silly 
(weak  bodily),  an'  ay  Leeby's  stuck 
by  me  an'  gien  up  her  life,  as  ye  micht 
say,  for  me.     Jamie " 

But  then  Jess  sometimes  broke 
down. 

"He's  so  far  awa,"  she  said,  after 
a  time,  "  an'  aye  when  he  gangs  back 
to  London  after  his  holidays  he  has  a 
fear  he'll  never  see  me  again,  but  he's 
terrified  to  mention  it,  an'  I  juist  ken 
by  the  wy  he  taks  haud  o'  me,  an' 
comes  runnin'  back  to  tak'  haud  o'  me 
again.  I  ken  fine  what  he's  thinkin/ 
but  I  daurna  speak. 

"Guid  is  no   word  for  what  Jamie 


DeaD  tbis  Zwcnt^s  l^cars.       69 

has  been  to  me,  but  he  wasna  born 
till  after  Joey  died.  When  we  got 
Jamie,  Hendry  took  to  whistlin'  again 
at  the  loom,  an'  Jamie  juist  filled  Joey's 
place  to  him.  Ay,  but  naebody  could 
fill  Joey's  place  to  me.  It's  different 
to  a  man.  A  bairn's  no  the  same  to 
him,  but  a  fell  bit  o'  me  was  buried  in 
my  laddie's  grave. 

''Jamie  an'  Joey  was  never  nane 
the  same  nature.  It  was  aye  some- 
thing in  a  shop,  Jamie  wanted  to  be, 
an'  he  never  cared  muckle  for  his 
books,  but  Joey  hankered  after  being 
a  minister,  young  as  he  was,  an'  a 
minister  Hendry  an'  me  would  hae 
done  our  best  to  mak'  him.  Mony, 
mony  a  time  after  he  came  in  frae  the 
kirk  on  the  Sabbath  he  would  stand  up 
at  this  very  window  and  wave  his 
hands  in  a  reverent  way,  juist  like 
the  minister.  His  first  text  was  to  be 
*Thou  God  seest  me.' 


70         B  llCllnDow  in  ^brume. 

"  Ye'll  wonder  at  me,  but  I've  sat 
here  in  the  lang  fore-nichts  dreamin' 
'at  Joey  was  a  grown  man  noo,  an' 
'at  I  was  puttin'  on  my  bonnet  to  come 
to  the  kirk  to  hear  him  preach.  Even 
as  far  back  as  twenty  years  an'  mair  I 
wasna  able  to  gang  aboot,  but  Joey 
would  say  to  me, '  We'll  get  a  carriage 
to  ye,  mother,  so  'at  ye  can  come  and 
hear  me  preach  on  "Thou  God  seest 
me. " '  He  would  say  to  me,  '  It 
doesna  do,  mother,  for  the  minister  in 
the  pulpit  to  nod  to  ony  o'  the  fowk, 
but  I'll  gie  ye  a  look  an'  ye'll  ken  it's 
me.'  Oh,  Joey,  I  would  hae  gien  you 
a  look  too,  an'  ye  would  hae  kent 
what  I  was  thinkin'.  He  often  said, 
*  Ye'll  be  proud  o'  me,  will  ye  no, 
mother,  when  ye  see  me  comin'  sailin' 
alang  to  the  pulpit  in  my  gown  ? '  So 
I  would  hae  been  proud  o'  him,  an'  I 
was  proud  to  hear  him  speakin'  o't. 
'The  other  fowk,'  he  said,     'will   be 


2)caC)  tbis  Zxccnt^  ll)car6.        71 

sittin'  in  their  seats  wonderin'  what 
my  text's  to  be,  but  you'll  ken,  mother, 
an'  you'll  turn  up  to  "  Thou  God  seest 
me,"  afore  I  gie  oot  the  chapter/  Ay, 
but  that  day  he  was  coffined,  for  all 
the  minister  prayed,  I  found  it  hard  to 
say  'Thou  God  seest  me.'  Its  the 
text  I  like  best  noo,  though,  an'  when 
Hendry  an'  Leeby  is  at  the  kirk,  I  turn't 
up  often,  often  in  the  Bible.  I  read 
frae  the  begin nin'  o'  the  chapter,  but 
when  I  come  to  'Thou  God  seest  me,' 
I  stop.  Na,  it's  no  'at  there's  ony 
rebellion  to  the  Lord  in  my  heart  noo, 
for  I  ken  He  was  lookin'  doon  when 
the  cart  gaed  owcr  Joey,  an'  He 
wanted  to  tak'  my  laddie  to  Himsel'. 
But  juist  when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God 
seest  me,'  I  let  the  book  lie  in  my  lap, 
for  aince  a  body's  sure  o'  that  they're 
sure  o'  all.  Ay,  ye'll  laugh,  but  I 
think,  mebbe  juist  because  I  w^as  his 
mother,    'at  though  Joey  never  lived 


72         B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

to  preach  in  a  kirk,  he's  preached  frae 
'Thou  God  seest  me'  to  me.  I  dinna 
ken  'at  I  would  ever  hae  been  sae  sure 
o'  that  if  it  hadna  been  for  him,  an'  so 
I  think  I  see  'im  sailin'  doon  to  the 
pulpit  juist  as  he  said  he  would  do.  I 
see  him  gien  me  the  look  he  spoke  o' 
— ay,  he  looks  my  wy  first,  an'  I  ken 
it's  him.  Naebody  sees  him  but  me, 
but  I  see  him  gien  me  the  look  he 
promised.  He's  so  terrible  near  me, 
an'  him  dead,  'at  when  my  time  comes 
I'll  be  rale  willin'  to  go.  I  dinna  say 
that  to  Jamie,  because  he  all  trembles  ; 
but  I'm  auld  noo,  an'  I'm  no  nane  loth 
to  gang." 

Jess'  staff  probably  had  a  history  be- 
fore it  became  hers,  for,  as  known  to 
me,  it  was  always  old  and  black.  If 
we  studied  them  sufficiently  we  might 
discover  that  staves  age  perceptibly 
just  as  the  hair  turns  gray.  At  the 
risk  of  being  thought  fanciful  I   dare 


DeaD  tbis  Cvvents  HJears.       73 

to  say  that  in  inanimate  objects,  as 
in  ourselves,  there  is  honorable  and 
shameful  old  age,  and  that  to  me  Jess' 
staff  was  a  symbol  of  the  good,  the 
true.  It  rested  against  her  in  the  win- 
dow, and  she  was  so  helpless  with- 
out it  when  on  her  feet,  that  to  those 
who  saw  much  of  her  it  was  part  of 
herself.  The  staff  was  very  short, 
nearly  a  foot  having  been  cut,  as  I 
think  she  once  told  me  herself,  from 
the  original,  of  which  to  make  a 
porridge  thieval  (or  stick  with  which 
to  stir  porridge),  and  in  moving  Jess 
leant  heavily  on  it.  Had  she  stood 
erect  it  would  not  have  touched  the 
floor.  This  was  the  staff  that  Jess 
shook  so  joyfully  at  her  boy  the  fore- 
noon in  May  when  he  ran  out  to 
his  death.  Joey,  however,  was  as- 
sociated in  Jess'  memory  with  her 
staff  in  less  painful  ways.  When  she 
spoke  of  him  she  took  the  dwarf  of  a 


74         21  'WainDovv  in  ^brums. 

staff  in  her  hands  and  looked  at  it 
softly. 

''It's  hard  to  me,"  she  would  say, 
"to  believe 'at  tvva  an'  twenty  years 
hae  come  and  gone  since  the  nicht 
Joey  hod  (hid)  my  staff.  Ay,  but 
Hendry  was  straucht  in  thae  days  by 
what  he  is  noo,  an'  Jamie  wasna  born. 
Twa  an'  twenty  years  come  the  back 
end  o'  the  year,  an'  it  wasna  thocht 
'at  I  could  live  through  the  winter. 
'  Ye'll  no  last  mair  than  anither  month, 
Jess,'  was  what  my  sister  Bell  said, 
when  she  came  to  see  me,  and  yet 
here  I  am  aye  sittin'  at  my  window, 
an'  Bell's  been  i'  the  kirkyard  this 
dozen  years. 

"  Leeby  was  saxteen  month  younger 
than  Joey,  an'  mair  quiet  like.  Her 
heart  was  juist  set  on  helpin'  aboot  the 
hoose,  an'  though  she  was  but  fower 
year  auld  she  could  kindle  the  fire  an' 
red  up    (clean  up)  the  room.     Leeby's 


B)ea&  tbis  ^went^  Itjears.       75 

been  my  savin'  ever  since  she  was 
fovver  year  auld.  Ay,  but  it  was  Joey 
'at  hung  about  me  maist,  an'  he  took 
notice  'at  I  wasna  gaen  out  as  I  used  to 
do.  Since  sune  after  my  marriage  I've 
needed  the  stick,  but  there  was  days 
'at  I  could  gang  across  the  road  an'  sit 
on  a  stane.  Joey  kent  there  was  some- 
thing wrang  when  I  had  to  gie  that  up, 
an'  syne  he  noticed  'at  I  couldna  even 
gang  to  the  window  unless  Hendry 
kind  o'  carried  me.  Na,  ye  wouldna 
think  'at  there  could  hae  been  days 
when  Hendry  did  that,  but  he  did. 
He  was  a  sort  o'  ashamed  if  ony  o'  the 
neighbors  saw  him  so  affectionate  like, 
but  he  was  terrible  ta'en  up  aboot  me. 
His  loom  was  doon  at  T'nowhead's, 
Bell's  father's,  an'  often  he  cam  awa 
up  to  see  if  I  was  ony  better.  He 
didna  lat  on  to  the  other  weavers  'at 
he  was  comin'  to  see  what  like  I  was. 
Na,  he  juist  said  he'd  forgotten  a  pirn. 


76         B  Minnow  in  c:brum5. 

or  his  cruizey  lamp,  or  onything.  Ah, 
but  he  didna  mak  nae  pretense  o'  no 
carin'  for  me  aince  he  was  inside  the 
hoose.  He  came  crawHn'  to  the  bed 
no  to  wauken  me  if  I  was  sleepin',  an' 
mony  a  time  I  made  belief  'at  I  was, 
juist  to  please  him.  It  was  an  awfu' 
business  on  him  to  hae  a  young  wife 
sae  helpless,  but  he  wasna  the  man  to 
cast  that  at  me.  I  mind  o'  sayin'  to 
him  one  day  in  my  bed,  '  Ye  made  a 
poor  bargain,  Hendry,  when  ye  took 
me.'  But  he  says,  'Not  one  soul  in 
Thrums  '11  daur  say  that  to  me  but 
yoursel',  Jess.  Na,  na,  my  dawty, 
you're  the  wuman  o'  my  choice ;  there's 
juist  one  woman  i'  the  warld  to  me, 
an' that's  you,  myainjess.'  Twa  an' 
twenty  years  syne.  Ay,  Hendry  called 
me  fond  like  names,  thae  no  everyday 
names.  What  a  straucht  man  he  was  ! 
"The  doctor  had  said  he  could  do 
no  more  for  me,  an'  Hendry  was  the 


DeaD  tbl6  ^wcnt^  lL)car5.        77 

only  ane  'at  didna  gie  me  up.  The 
bairns,  of  course,  didna  understan', 
and  Joey  would  come  into  the  bed  an' 
play  on  the  top  o'  me.  Hendry  would 
hae  t'a'en  him  awa,  but  I  liked  to  hae 
'im.  Ye  see,  we  was  lang  married 
afore  we  had  a  bairn,  an'  though  I 
couldna  bear  ony  other  weight  on  me, 
Joey  didna  hurt  me,  somehoo.  I  liked 
to  hae  'im  so  close  to  me. 

"  It  was  through  that  'at  he  came  to 
bury  my  staff.  I  couldna  help  often 
thinkin'  o'  what  like  the  hoose  would 
be  when  I  was  gone,  an'  aboot  Leeby 
an'  Joey  left  so  young.  So,  when  I 
could  say  it  without  greetin',  I  said  to 
Joey  'at  I  was  goin'  far  awa,  an'  would 
he  be  a  terrible  guid  laddie  to  his 
father  and  Leeby  when  I  was  gone? 
He  aye  juist  said,  *  Dinna  gang, 
mother,  dinna  gang,'  but  one  day 
Hendry  came  in  frae  his  loom,  and 
says     Joey,      'Father,      whaur's     my 


78         B  'OIlmDow  in  ITbrums. 

mother  gaen  to,  awa  frae  us  ? '  I'll 
never  forget  Hendry's  face.  His 
mooth  juist  opened  an'  shut  twa  or 
three  times,  an'  he  walked  quick  ben 
to  the  room.  I  cried  oot  to  him  to 
come  back,  but  he  didna  come,  so  I 
sent  Joey  for  him.  Joey  came  runnin' 
back  to  me  sayin',  '  Mother,  mother, 
am  awfu'  fleid  (frightened),  for  my 
father's  greetin'  sair.' 

''A'  thae  things  took  a  hand  o'  Joey, 
an'  he  ended  in  gien  us  a  fleg  (fright). 
I  was  sleepin'  ill  at  the  time,  an'  Hen- 
dry was  ben  sleepin'  in  the  room  wi' 
Leeby,  Joey  bein'  wi  me.  Ay,  weel, 
one  nicht  I  woke  up  in  the  dark  an' 
put  oot  my  hand  to  'im,  an'  he  wasna 
there.  I  sat  up  wi'  a  terrible  start,  an' 
syne  I  kent  by  the  cauld  'at  the  door 
maun  be  open.  I  cried  oot  quick  to 
Hendry,  but  he  was  a  soond  sleeper, 
an'  he  didna  hear  me.  Ay,  I  dinna 
ken  hoo  I  did  it,  but  I  got  ben  to  the 


DcaD  tbis  ^wcnts  Ueara.        79 

room  an'  I  shook  him  up.  I  was  near 
daft  wi'  fear  when  I  saw  Leeby  wasna 
there  either.  Hendry  couldna  tak"  it 
in  a'  at  aince,  but  sune  he  liad  his 
trousers  on,  an'  he  made  mo  He  down 
on  his  bed.  He  said  he  wouldna 
move  till  I  did  it.  or  I  wouldna  hae 
dune  it.  As  sune  as  he  was  oot  o'  the 
hoose  crying-  their  names  I  sat  up  in 
my  bed  listenin'.  Sune  I  heard  speak- 
in',  an'  in  a  minute  Leeby  comes  run- 
nin'  in  to  me,  roarin'  an'  greetin'. 
She  was  barefeeted,  and  had  juist  her 
nichtgown  on,  an'  her  teeth  was  chat- 
terin'.  I  took  her  into  the  bed,  but  it 
was  an  hour  afore  she  could  tell  me 
onything,  she  was  in  sic  a  state. 

"Sune  after  Hendry  came  in  car- 
ry in'  Joey.  Joey  was  as  naked  as 
Leeby,  and  as  cauld  as  lead,  but  he 
wasna  greetin'.  Instead  o'  that  he 
was'awfu'  satisfied  like,  and  for  all 
Hendry    threatened    to    lick    him    he 


8o  TlCllnDow  In  ^brums* 

wouldna  tell  what  he  an'  Leeby  had 
been  doin'.  He  says,  though,  says 
he,  'Ye'll  no  gang  awa  noo,  mother; 
no,  ye'll  bide  noo.'  My  bonny  laddie, 
I  didna  fathom  him  at  the  time. 

"  It  was  Leeby  'at  I  got  it  frae.  Ye 
see,  Joey  had  never  seen  megaen  ony 
gait  withoot  my  staff,  an'  he  thocht  if 
he  hod  it  I  wouldna  be  able  to  gang 
awa.  Ay,  he  planned  it  all  oot, 
though  he  was  but  a  bairn,  an'  lay 
watchin'  me  in  my  bed  till  I  fell  asleep. 
Syne  he  creepit  oot  o'  the  bed,  an'  got 
the  staff,  and  gaed  ben  for  Leeby. 
She  was  fleid,  but  he  said  it  was  the 
only  wy  to  mak  me  'at  I  couldna  gang 
awa.  It  was  juist  ower  there  whaur 
thae  cabbages  is  'at  he  dug  the  hole 
wi'  a  spade,  an'  buried  the  staff.  Hen- 
d1"y  dug  it  up  next  mornin'." 


XLbc  Statement  ot  (Tibbie  JSirae.     8i 
CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  STATEMENT  OF  TIBBIE  BIRSE. 

On  a  Thursday  Pete  Lownie  was 
buried,  and  when  Hendry  returned 
from  the  funeral  Jess  asked  if  Davit 
Lunan  had  been  there. 

**Na,"said  Hendry,  who  was  shut 
up  in  the  closet-bed,  taking  off  his 
blacks,  "I  heard  tell  he  wasna  bid- 
den. ■' 

*'Yea,  yea, "said  Jess,  nodding  to 
me  significantly.  "Ay,  weel,  '  she 
added,  "  we'll  be  hae'n  Tibbie  ower 
here  on  Saturday  to  deve's  (weary  us) 
to  death  aboot  it." 

Tibbie,  Davit's  wife,  was  sister  to 
INIarget,  Pete's  widow,  and  she  gen- 
erally did  visit  Jess  on  Saturday  night 
6 


82         B  TKIlinDow  in  ^brums. 

to  talk  about  Marget,  who  was  fast 
becomins:  one  o'  the  most  fashionable 
persons  in  Thrums.  Tibbie  was  hope- 
lessly plebeian.  She  was  none  o'  your 
proud  kind,  and  if  I  entered  the  kitchen 
when  she  was  there  she  pretended  not 
to  see  me,  so  that,  if  I  chose,  I  might 
escape  without  speaking  to  the  like  of 
her.  I  always  grabbed  her  hand,  how- 
ever in  a  frank  way. 

On  Saturday  Tibbie  made  her  ap- 
pearance. From  the  rapidity  of  her 
walk,  and  the  way  she  was  sucking 
in  her  mouth,  I  knew  that  she  had 
strange  things  to  unfold.  She  had 
pinned  a  gray  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders and  wore  a  black  mutch  over  her 
dangling  gray  curls. 

"It's  you,  Tibbie,"  I  heard  Jess  say, 
as  the  door  opened. 

Tibbie  did  not  knock,  not  consider- 
ing herself  grand  enough  for  cere- 
mony,  and   indeed  Jess   would  have 


Xlbc  statement  ot  Nibble  JBirse.     S;^ 

resented  her  knocking.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  Leeby  visited  Tibbie,  she 
knocked  as  politely  as  if  she  were  col- 
lecting for  the  precentor's  present. 
All  this  showed  that  we  were  superior 
socially  to  Tibbie. 

"Ay,  hoo  are  ye,  Jess.?"  Tibbie 
said. 

"^luckle  aboot  it,"  answered  Jess  ; 
**juist  aff  an'  on  ;  ay,  an'  hoo  hae  ye 
been  yersel'  ? " 

*'0u,"  said  Tibbie. 

I  wish  I  could  write  "  ou  "  as  Tibbie 
said  it.  \\'ith  her  it  was  usually  a  sen- 
tence in  itself.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
mere  bark,  again  it  expressed  indigna- 
tion, surprise,  rapture  ;  it  might  be  a 
check  upon  emotion  or  a  way  of  lead- 
ing up  to  it,  and  often  it  lasted  for  half 
a  minute.  In  this  instance  it  was,  I 
should  say,  an  intimation  that  if  Jess 
was  ready  Tibbie  would  begin. 

"  So  Pete  Lownie's  gone,"  said  Jess, 


84  21  llClinDow  in  ^brums. 

whom  I  could  not  see  from  ben  the 
house.  I  had  a  good  glimpse  of  Tib- 
bie, however,  through  the  open  door- 
way. She  had  the  arm-chair  on  the 
south  side,  as  she  would  have  said,  of 
the  fireplace. 

"He's  awa,"  assented  Tibbie  prim- 

ly. 

I  heard  the  lid  of  the  kettle  dancing, 
and  then  came  a  prolonged  "ou". 
Tibbie  bent  forward  to  whisper,  and  if 
she  had  anything  terrible  to  tell  I  was 
glad  of  that,  for  when  she  whispered 
I  heard  her  best.  For  a  time  only 
a  murmur  of  words  reached  me,  dis- 
tant music  with  an  "  ou "  now  and 
again  that  fired  Tibbie  as  the  beating 
of  his  drum  may  rouse  the  martial 
spirit  of  a  drummer.  At  last  our  vis- 
itor broke  into  an  agitated  whisper, 
and  it  was  only  when  she  stopped 
whispering,  as  she  did  now  and  again, 
that  I  ceased  to  hear  her.     Jess  evi- 


XLbc  statement  ot  Cribble  JBirse.     85 

dently  put  a  question  at  times,  but  so 
politely  (for  she  had  on  her  best  wrap- 
per) that  I  diti  not  catch  a  word. 

''Though  I  should  be  struck  deid 
this  nicht,"  Tibbie  whispered,  and  the 
sibilants  hissed  between  her  few  re- 
maining teeth,  "I  wasna  sae  muckle 
as  speired  to  the  layin'  oot.  There 
was  Mysy  Cruickshanks  there,  an' 
Kitty  Wobster  'at  was  nae  friends  to 
the  corpse  to  speak  o',  but  INIarget 
passed  by  me,  mc  'at  is  her  ain  flesh 
an'  blood,  though  it  mayna  be  for  the 
like  o'  me  to  say  it.  It's  gospel  truth, 
Jess,  I  tell  ye,  when  I  say  'at  for  all  I 
ken  officially,  as  ye  micht  say,  Pete 
Lownie  may  be  weel  and  hearty  this 
day.  If  I  was  to  meet  Marget  in  the 
face  I  couldna  say  he  was  deid, 
though  I  ken  'at  the  wricht  coftined 
him  ;  na,  an'  what's  mair,  I  wouldna 
gie  Marget  the  satisfaction  o'  hearin' 
me  say  it.     No,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  I  dinna 


S6         B  'ailln&ow  in  XTbrums, 

pretend  to  be  on  an  equalty  wi'  Mar- 
get,  but  equalty  or  no  equalty,  a  body 
has  her  feelings,  an'  lat  on  'at  I  ken 
Pete's  gone  I  will  not.  Eh  ?  Ou, 
weel.   .   .   . 

'*Na  faags  a;  na,  na.  I  ken  my 
place  better  than  to  gang  near  Marget. 
I  dinna  deny  'at  she's  grand  by  me, 
and  her  keeps  a  bakehoose  o'  her  ain, 
an'  glad  am  I  to  see  her  doin'  sae 
weel,  but  let  me  tell  ye  this,  Jess, 
'Pride  goeth  before  a  fall'  Yes,  it 
does,  it's  Scripture  ;  ay,  it's  nae  mak- 
up  o'  mine,  it's  Scripture.  And  this  I 
will  say,  though  kennin'  my  place,  'at 
Davit  Lunan  is  as  dainty  a  man  as  is 
in  Thrums,  an'  there's  no  one  'at's  bet- 
ter behaved  at  a  bural,  being  particu- 
larly wise-like  (presentable)  in's  blacks, 
an'  them  spleet  new.  Na,  na,  Jess, 
Davit  may  hae  his  faults  an'  tak'  a 
dram  at  times  like  anither,  but  he 
would  shame  naebody  at  a  bural,  an* 


Xlbc  Statement  ot  Tibbie  JSiree.     87 

Marget  tlcleeberately  insulted  him,  no 
speirin'  him  to  Pete's.  What's  mair, 
when  the  minister  cried  in  to  see  me 
yesterday,  an'  me  on  the  floor  washin', 
says  he,  *  So  Marget's  lost  her  man,' 
an'  I  said,  '  Say  ye  so,  na  ? '  for  let  on 
'at  I  kent,  and  neither  me  at  the  lay- 
ing oot  nor  Davit  Lunan  at  the 
funeral,  I  would  not. 

"'Davit  should  hae  gone  to  the 
funeral, '  says  the  minister,  '  for  I  doubt 
not  he  was  only  omitted  in  the  invita- 
tions by  a  mistake. ' 

''Ay,  it  was  weel  meant,  but  says  I, 
Jess,  says  I,  '  As  lang  as  am  livin'  to 
tak  chairge  o'  'im,  Davit  Lunan  gangs 
to  nae  burals  'at  he's  no  bidden  to. 
An'  I  tell  ye,'  I  says  to  the  minister, 
'  if  there  was  one  body  'at  had  a  richt 
to  be  at  the  bural  o'  Pete  Lownie,  it 
was  Davit  Lunan,  him  bein'  my  man 
an'  Marget  my  ain  sister.  Yes,'  says 
I,  though  am  no  o*  the  boastin'  kind. 


88  B  MinDow  in  ^brume. 

'  Davit  had  maist  richt  to  be  there  next 
to  Pete  'imsel'.       Ou,  Jess.   .   .   . 

"This  is  no  a  maiter  I  like  to  speak 
aboot ;  na,  I  dinna  care  to  mention  it, 
but  the  neighbors  is  nat'rally  taen  up 
aboot  it,  and  Chirsty  Tosh  was  sayin' 
what  I  would  wager  'at  Marget  hadna 
sent  the  minister  to  hint  'at  Davit's 
bein'  over-lookit  in  the  invitations  was 
juist  an  accident?  Losh,  losh,  Jess,  to 
think  'at  a  woman  could  hae  the  michty 
assurance  to  mak  a  tool  o'  the  very 
minister  !  But,  sal,  as  far  as  that 
gangs,  Marget  would  do  it,  an'  gae 
twice  to  the  kirk  next  Sabbath,  too  ; 
but  if  she  thinks  she's  to  get  ower  me 
like  that,  she  taks  me  for  a  bigger  fule 
than  I  tak  her  for.  Na,  na,  Marget, 
ye  dinna  draw  my  leg  (deceive  me). 
Ou,  no.   .   .   . 

"  Mind  ye,  Jess,  I  hae  no  desire  to 
be  friends  wi'  Marget.  Naething  could 
be  farrer   frae  my  wish   than    to   hae 


ZTbe  Statement  ot  Tibbie  JSfrse.     89 

helpit  in  the  layin'  oot  o'  Pete  Lownie, 
an'  I  assure  ye.  Davit  wasna  keen  to 
gang  to  the  bural  '  If  they  dinna 
want  me  to  their  burals,'  Davit  says, 

*  they  hae  nae  mair  to  do  than  to  say 
sae.     But  I  warn  ye,  Tibbie,'  he  says, 

*  if  there's  a  bural,  frae  this  hoose,  be 
it  your  bural,  or  be  it  my  bural,  not 
one  o'  the  family  o'  Lownies  casts  their 
shadows  upon  the  corp. '  Thae  was 
the  very  words  Davit  said  to  me  as  we 
watched  the  hearse  frae  the  skylicht. 
Ay,  he  bore  up  wonderfu',  but  he  felt 
it,  Jess — he  felt  it,  as  I  could  tell  by 
his  takin'  to  drink  again  that  very  nicht. 
Jess,  Jess.  .  .   . 

"  Marget's  getting  waur  an'  waur? 
Ay,  ye  may  say  so,  though  I'll  say 
naething  agin  her  mysel'.  Of  coorse  am 
no  on  equalty  wi'  her,  especially  since 
she  had  the  bell  put  up  in  her  hoose. 
Ou,  I  hinna  seen  it  mysel',  na,  I  never 
gang  near  the  hoose,  an',  as  mony  a 


9o         21  TKainDow  In  tTbrums. 

body  can  tell  ye,  when  I  do  hae  to 
gang  that  wy  I  mak  my  feet  my  friend. 
Ay,  but  as  I  was  sayin',  Marget's  sae 
grand  noo  'at  she  has  a  bell  in  the 
hoose.  As  I  understan',  there's  a  rope 
in  the  wast  room,  an'  when  ye  pu'  it 
a  bell  rings  in  the  east  room.  Weel, 
when  Marget  has  company  at  their  tea 
in  the  wast  room,  an'  they  need  mair 
watter  or  scones  or  onything,  she  rises 
an'  rings  the  bell.  Syne  Jean,  the 
auldest  lassie,  gets  up  frae  the  table 
an'  lifts  the  jug  or  the  plates  an'  gaes 
awa  ben  to  the  east  room  for  what's 
wanted.  Ay,  it's  a  wy  o'  doin'  'at's 
juist  like  the  gentry,  but  I'll  tell  ye, 
Jess,  Pete  juist  fair  hated  the  soond 
o'  that  bell,  an'  there's  them  'at  says 
it  was  the  death  o'  'im.  To  think 
o'  Marget  ha'en  sic  an  establish- 
ment !   .    .    . 

"Na,    I    hinna   seen    the    mournin', 
I've  heard  o't.     Na,  if  Marget  doesna 


Zbc  Statement  ot  Nibble  JBirse.     91 

tell  me  naething,  am  no  the  kind  to 
speir  naething,  an'  though  I'll  be  at 
the  kirk  the  morn,  I  winna  turn  my 
held  to  look  at  the  mournin'.  But  it's 
fac  as  death  I  ken  frae  Janet  Mc- 
Quhatty'at  the  bonnet's  a'  crape,  an' 
three'  yairds  o'  crape  on  the  dress,  the 
which  Marget  calls  a  costume.  .  .  . 
Ay,  I  wouldna  wonder  but  what  it  was 
hale  watter  the  morn,  for  it  looks 
michty  like  rain,  an'  if  it  is  it'll  serve 
Marget  richt,  an'  mebbe  bring  doon 
her  pride  a  wee.  No  'at  I  want  to  see 
her  humbled,  for,  in  coorse,  she's  grand 
by  the  Hke  o'  me.     Ou,  but  ..." 


92  21  TlClinDow  in  ^brums. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    CLOAK    WITH    BEADS. 

On  week-days  the  women  who  pass- 
ed the  window  were  meagerly  dressed  ; 
mothers  in  draggled  winsey  gowns, 
carrying  infants  that  were  armfuls  of 
grandeur.  The  Sabbath  clothed  every 
one  in  her  best,  and  then  the  women 
went  by  with  their  hands  spread  out. 
When  I  was  with  Hendry  cloaks  with 
beads  were  the  fashion,  and  Jess  sigh- 
ed as  she  looked  at  them.  They  were 
known  in  Thrums  as  the  Eleven  and 
a  Bits  (threepenny  bits),  that  being 
their  price  at  Kyowowy's  on  the  square. 
Kyowowy  means  finicky,  and  applied 
to  the  draper  by  general  consent. 
No  doubt  it  was   very  characteristic  to 


B  Cloak  witb  JBcaDs. 


93 


call  the  cloaks  by  their  market  value. 
In  the  glen  my  scholars  still  talk  of 
their  school-books  as  the  tupenny,  the 
fowerpenny,  thesaxpenny.  They  fin- 
ish their  education  with  the  tenpenny. 
Jess'  opportunity  for  handling  the 
garments  that  others  of  her  sex  could 
finger  in  shops  was  when  she  had 
guests  to  tea.  Persons  who  merely 
dropped  in  and  remained  to  tea  got 
their  meal,  as  a  rule,  in  the  kitchen. 
They  had  nothing  on  that  Jess  could 
not  easily  take  in  as  she  talked  to  them. 
But  when  they  came  by  special  invita- 
tion the  meal  was  served  in  the  room, 
the  guests'  things  being  left  on  the 
kitchen-bed.  Jess  not  being  able  to 
go  ben  the  house,  had  to  be  left  with 
the  things.  When  the  time  to  go 
arrived,  these  were  found  on  the  bed, 
just  as  they  had  been  placed  there, 
but  Jess  could  now  tell  Leeby  whether 
they  were  imitation,  why  Bell  Elshion- 


94         ^  liSIlinDow  in  c;brum0. 

er's  feather  went  far  round  the  bonnet, 
and  Chirsty  Lownie's  reason  for  al- 
ways holding  her  left  arm  fast  against 
her  side  when  she  went  abroad  in  the 
black  jacket.  Ever  since  My  Hobart's 
eleven  and  a  bit  was  left  on  the  kitchen 
bed  Jess  had  hungered  for  a  cloak  with 
beads.  My's  was  the  very  marrows 
of  the  one  T'nowhead's  wife  got  in 
Dundee  for  ten-and-sixpence  ;  indeed, 
we  would  have  thoug^ht  that  'Lisbeth's 
also  came  from  Kyowowy  s  had  not 
Sanders  Elshioner's  sister  seen  her  go 
into  the  Dundee  shop  with  T'nowhead 
(who  was  loth),  and  hung  about  to 
discover  what  she  was  after. 

Hendry  was  not  quick  at  reading 
faces  like  Tammas  Haggart,  but  the 
wistful  look  on  Jess'  face  when  there 
was  talk  of  eleven  and  a  bits  had  its 
meaning  for  him. 

"They're  grand  to  look  at,  no 
doubt,"  I  have  heard  him  say  to  Jess, 


B  Cloal?  witb  J6caC>3.  95 

**  but  they're  richt  annoyin'.  That  new 
wife  o'  Peter  Dickie's  had  anc  on  in  the 
kirk  last  Sabbath,  an'  wi'  her  sittin' 
juist  afore  us  I  couldna  listen  to  the 
sermon  for  tryin'  to  count  the  beads." 

Hendry  made  his  way  into  these 
gossips  uninvited,  for  his  opinions  on 
dress  were  considered  contemptible, 
though  he  was  worth  consulting  on 
material.  Jess  and  Leeby  discussed 
many  things  in  his  presence,  confi- 
dent that  his  ears  were  not  doing  their 
work  ;  but  every  now  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  been  hearken- 
ing greedily.  If  the  subject  was  dress, 
he  might  then  become  a  little  irritating. 

"  Oh,  they're  grand,"  Jess  admitted  ; 
*'  they  set  a  body  aff  oncommon." 

"They  would  be  no  use  to  you," 
said  Hendry,  "  for  ye  canna  wear  them 
except  ootside. " 

*'A  body  doesna  buy  cloaks  to  be 
wearin'  at  them  steady,"  retorted  Jess. 


96         H  Window  In  ^brum6. 

'*No,  no,  but  you  could  never  wear 
yours  though  ye  had  ane/' 

"I  dinna  want  ane.  They're  far 
ower  grand  for  the  Hke  o'  me." 

''They're  no  nae  sic  thing.  Am 
thinkin'  ye're  juist  as  fit  to  wear  an 
eleven  and  a  bit  as  My  Hobart. " 

"Weel,  mebbe  I  am,  but  it's  oot  o^ 
the  question  gettin'  ane,  they're  sic  a 
price." 

"Ay,  an'  though  we  had  the  siller, 
it  would  surely  be  an  awfu'  like  thing  to 
buy  a  cloak  'at  ye  could  never  wear  ?  " 

''  Ou,  but  I  dinna  want  ane." 

Jess  spoke  so  mournfully  that  Hen- 
dry became  enraged. 

"It's  most  michty,"  he  said,  "'at 
ye  would  gang  an'  set  yer  heart  on  sic 
a  completely  useless  thing." 

"  I  hinna  set  my  heart  on't." 

"Dinna  blether.  Ye've  been  speak- 
in'  aboot  thae  eleven  and  a  bits  to 
Leeby,  aff  an'  on,  for  twa  month." 


R  ^loak  witb  JBeaOs.  97 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  off  to  his 
loom,  and  Jess  gave  me  a  look  which 
meant  that  men  are  trying  at  the  best, 
once  you  are  tied  to  them. 

The  cloaks  continued  to  turn  up 
in  conversation,  and  Hendry  poured 
scorn  upon  Jess'  weakness,  telling  her 
she  would  be  better  employed  mend- 
ing his  trousers  than  brooding  over  an 
eleven  and  a  bit  that  would  have  to 
spend  its  life  in  a  drawer.  An  out- 
sider would  have  thought  that  Hen- 
dry was  positively  cruel  to  Jess.  He 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  finding 
that  she  had  neglected  to  sew  a  button 
on  his  waistcoat.  His  real  joy,  how- 
ever, was  the  knowledge  that  she 
sewed  as  no  other  woman  in  Thrums 
could  sew.  Jess  had  a  genius  for 
making  new  garments  out  of  old  ones, 
and  Hendry  never  tired  of  gloating 
over  her  cleverness  so  long  as  she  was 
not  present.  He  was  always  athirst 
7 


98  B  MlnDow  in  ^brums. 

for  fresh  proofs  of  it,  and  these  were 
forthcoming  every  day.  Sparing  were 
his  words  of  praise  to  herself,  but  in 
the  evening  he  generahy  had  a  smoke 
with  me  in  the  attic,  and  then  the 
thought  of  Jess  made  him  chuckle  till 
his  pipe  went  out.  When  he  smoked 
he  grunted  as  if  in  pain,  though  this 
really  added  to  the  enjoyment. 

"  It  doesna  matter,''  he  would  say  to 
me,  "  what  Jess  turns  her  hand  to,  she 
can  mak  ony  mortal  thing.  She  doesna 
need  nae  teachin'  ;  na,  juist  gie  her  a 
guid  look  at  onything,  be  it  clothes, 
or  furniture,  or  in  the  bakin'  line,  it's 
all  the  same  to  her.  She'll  mak  an- 
other exactly  like  it.  Ye  canna  beat 
her.  Her  bannocks  is  so  superior  'at 
a  Tilliedrum  woman  took  to  her  bed 
after  tastin'  them,  an'  when  the  law- 
yer has  company  his  wife  gets  Jess  to 
mak'  some  bannocks  for  her  an'  syne 
pretends  they're  her  ain  bakin'.      Ay, 


B  Cloaft  wltb  JBca^s.  99 

there's  a  story  aboot  that.  One  day 
the  auld  doctor,  him  'at's  deid,  was 
at  his  tea  at  the  lawyer's,  an'  says  the 
guidwife,  'Try  the  cakes,  Mr.  Riach  ; 
they're  my  own  bakin'. '  Weel,  he  was 
afearsomely  outspoken  man,  the  doc- 
tor, an'  nae  suner  had  he  the  bannock 
atween  his  teeth,  for  he  didna  stop  to 
swallow't,  than  he  says,  '  ^Mistress  Ged- 
die, '  says  he,  '  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sab- 
bath. Xa,  na,  you're  no  the  first 
grand  leddy  'at  has  gien  me  bannocks 
as  their  ain  bakin'  'at  was  baked  and 
fired  by  Jess  Logan,  her  'at's  Hendry 
McQumpha's  wife.'  Ay,  they  say  the 
lawyer's  wife  didna  ken  which  wy 
to  look,  she  was  that  mortified.  Its 
juist  the  same  wi'  sew  in'.  There's 
wys  o'  ornamentin'  christenin"  robes 
an'  the  like  'at's  kent  to  naebody  but 
hersel'  ;  an'  as  for  stockin's,  weel, 
though  I've  seen  her  mak  sae  mony, 
she  amazes  me  yet.     I  mind  o'  a  furry 


loo        U  Wiintfovo  in  ^brum6. 

waistcoat  I  aince  had.  Weel,  when  it 
was  fell  dune,  do  you  think  she  gae  it 
awa  to  some  gaen  aboot  body  (va- 
grant) ?  Na,  she  made  it  into  a  richt 
neat  coat  to  Jamie,  wha  was  a  bit  lad- 
die at  the  time.  When  he  grew  out  o' 
it,  she  made  a  slipbody  o't  for  hersel'. 
Ay,  I  dinna  ken  a'  the  different  things 
it  became,  but  the  last  time  I  saw  it 
was  ben  in  the  room,  whaur  she'd 
covered  a  footstool  wi  't.  Yes,  Jess 
is  the  cleverest  crittur  I  ever  saw. 
Leebys  handy,  but  she's  no  a  patch 
on  her  mother." 

I  sometimes  repeated  these  pane- 
gyrics to  Jess.  She  merely  smiled,  and 
said  that  men  haver  most  terrible 
when  they  are  not  at  their  work. 

Hendry  tried  Jess  sorely  over  the 
cloaks,  and  a  time  came  when,  only 
by  exasperating  her,  could  he  get  her 
to  reply  to  his  sallies. 

"  Wha  wants  an  eleven  an'  a  bit  ?  " 
she  retorted  now  and  again. 


B  Cloaft  wltb  JBeaDs.  loi 

''  It's  you  'at  wciiits  it,"  said  Hendry 
promptly. 

"Did  I  ever  say  I  wanted  ane  ? 
What  use  could  I  hac  for't  ?  " 

"That's  the  queistion,"  said  Hen- 
dry. "Ye  canna  gang  the  length  o' 
the  door,  so  ye  would  never  be  able 
to  wear't. " 

"Ay,  weel,"  replied  Jess,  "I'll 
never  hae  the  chance  o'  no  bein'  able 
to  wear't,  for,  hooever  muckle  I  wanted 
it,  I  couldna  get  it. " 

Jess'  infatuation  had  in  time  the 
effect  of  making  Hendry  uncomfort- 
able. In  the  attic  he  delivered  him- 
self of  such  sentiments  as  these  : 

' '  There's  nae  understandin'  a  woman. 
There's  Jess  'at  hasna  her  equal  for 
cleverness  in  Thrums,  man  or  woman, 
an'  yet  she's  fair  skeered  about  thae 
cloaks.  Aince  a  woman  sets  her  mind 
on  something  to  wear,  she's  mair  on- 
reasonable   than    the    stupidest   man. 


I02        B  xaflinDow  in  Q:brum0. 

Ay,  it  micht  mak'  them  humble  to  see 
hoo  foolish  they  are  syne.  No,  but  it 
doesna  do"t, 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  to  be  useful,  noo, 
I  wouldna  think  the  same  o't,  but  she 
could  never  wear't.  She  kens  she 
could  never  wear't,  an  'yet  she's  juist 
as  keen  to  hae't 

"  I  dinna  like  to  see  her  so  wantin'  a 
thing,  an'  no  able  to  get  it.  But  it's  an 
awfu'  sum,  eleven  an'  a  bit. " 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  further. 

"If  ye  had  eleven  an'  a  bit  to  fling 
awa,"  he  said,  "ye  dinna  mean  to  tell 
me  'at  ye  would  buy  a  cloak  instead  o' 
cloth  for  a  gown,  or  a  flannel  for  petti- 
coats, or  some  useful  thing  ?  " 

"As  sure  as  death,"  said  Jess,  with 
unwonted  vehemence,  "if  a  cloak  I 
could  get,  a  cloak  I  would  buy." 

Hendry  came  up  to  tell  me  what 
Jess  had  said. 

*  *  It's  a  michty  infatooation, "  he  said. 


B  Cloaft  witb  JBca^s.  103 

**but  it  shows  hoo  her  heart's  set  on 
thae  cloaks.  " 

"  Aince  ye  had  it,  "he  argued  with 
her,  "ye  would  juist  hae  to  lock  it 
awa  in  the  drawers.  Ye  would  never 
even  be  seein'  't. " 

' '  Ay,  would  I, "  said  Jess.  ' '  I  would 
often  tak  it  oot  an'  look  at  it.  Ay,  an 
I  would  aye  ken  it  was  there. " 

"But  naebody  would  ken  ye  had  it 
but  yersel',"  said  Hendry,  who  had  a 
vague  notion  that  this  was  a  telling 
objection. 

"Would  they  no.-^"  answered  Jess. 
*'  It  would  be  a'  through  the  toon  afore 
nicht." 

"  Weel,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Hendry, 
"is  'at  ye're  terrible  foolish  to  tak'  the 
want  o'  sic  a  useless  thing  to  heart." 

"Am  no  takkin'  't  to  heart,"  retorted 
Jess,  as  usual. 

Jess  needed  many  things  in  her  days 
that  poverty  kept  from  her  to  the  end. 


I04       21  llClinDow  in  tibrums. 

and  the  cloak  was  merely  a  luxury. 
She  would  soon  have  let  it  slip  by  as 
something  unattainable  had  not  Hen- 
dry encouraged  it  to  rankle  in  her  mind. 
I  cannot  say  when  he  first  determined 
that  Jess  should  haA^e  a  cloak,  come 
the  money  as  it  liked,  for  he  was  too 
ashamed  of  his  weakness  to  admit  his 
project  to  me.  I  remember,  however, 
his  saying  to  Jess  one  day  : 

"  I'll  warrant  ye  could  mak'  a  cloak 
yersel'  the  marrows  o'  thae  eleven  and 
a  bits,  at  half  the  price  ?  " 

' '  It  would  cost, "  said  Jess,  ' '  sax  an' 
saxpence,  exactly.  The  cloth  would 
be  five  shillins,  an'  the  beads  a  shillin'. 
I  have  some  braid  'at  would  do  fine  for 
the  front,  but  the  buttons  would  be 
saxpence." 

"  Ye're  sure  o'  that  ?  " 

"  I  ken  fine,  for  I  got  Leeby  to  price 
the  things  in  the  shop. " 

*'  Ay,  but  it  maun  be  ill  to  shape  the 


21  Cloak  witb  3i6caO0.         105 

cloaks  richt.  There  was  a  queer  cut 
aboot  that  ane  Peter  Dickie's  new  wife 
had  on." 

"Queer  cut  or  no  queer  cut,'"  said 
Jess,  "  I  took  the  shape  o'  My  Hobart's 
ane  the  day  she  was  here  at  her  tea,  an' 
I  could  mak'  the  identical  o't  for  sax 
and  sax. " 

''I  dinna  believet,"  said  Hendry, 
but  when  he  and  I  were  alone  he  told 
me:  "  There's  no  a  doubt  she  could 
mak'  it.  Ye  heard  her  say  she  had  ta'en 
the  shape.?  Ay,  that  shows  she's  rale 
set  on  a  cloak." 

Had  Jess  known  that  Hendry  had 
been  saving  up  for  months  to  buy  her 
material  for  a  cloak,  she  would  not 
have  let  him  do  it.  She  could  not 
know,  however,  for  all  the  time  he  was 
scraping  together  his  pence  he  kept  up 
a  ring-ding-dang  about  her  folly.  Hen- 
dry gave  Jess  all  the  wages  he  weaved 
except    threepence    weekly,    most    of 


io6       B  minOow  in  ^brumg. 

which  went  in  tobacco  and  snuff. 
The  dulseman  had  perhaps  a  half- 
penny from  him  in  the  fortnight.  I 
noticed  that  for  a  long  time  Hendry 
neither  smoked  nor  snuffed,  and  I  knew 
that  for  years  he  had  carried  a  shilling 
in  his  snuff-mull.  The  remamder  of 
the  money  he  must  have  made  by  extra 
work  at  his  loom  by  w^orking  harder, 
for  he  could  scarcely  have  worked 
longer. 

It  was  one  day  shortly  before  Jamie's 
return  to  Thrums  that  Jess  saw  Hendry 
pass  the  house  and  go  down  the  brae 
when  he  ought  to  have  come  in  to  his 
brose.  She  sat  at  the  window  watch- 
ing for  him,  and  by  and  by  he  reap- 
peared, carrying  a  parcel. 

' '  Whaur  on  earth  hae  ye  been  ?  "  she 
asked,  "an'  what's  that  you're  car- 
ryin'  ? " 

"  Did  ye  think  it  was  an  eleven  an* 
a  bit  ?  "  said  Hendry. 


H  CloaK  witb  Ji5ca^^. 


[07 


"No,  I  diclna,"' answered  Jess  indig- 
nantly. 

Then  Ilcndry  slowly  undid  the  knots 
of  the  string  with  which  the  parcel  was 
tied.      He  took  off  the  brown  paper. 

"There's  yer  cloth,"  he  said,  "an' 
here's  one  an'  saxpence  for  the  beads 
an'  the  buttons." 

While  Jess  still  stared  he  followed 
me  ben  the  house. 

"  It's  a  terrible  haver,"  he  said,  apol- 
ogetically, **but  she  had  set  her  heart 
on't." 


io8        B  Window  in  C brums. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY. 

One  evening  there  was  such  a  gath- 
ering at  the  pig-sty  that  Hendry  and  I 
could  not  get  a  board  to  lay  our  backs 
against.  Circumstances  had  pushed 
Pete  Elshioner  into  the  place  of  honor 
that  belonged  by  right  of  mental  pow- 
ers to  Tammas  Haggart,  and  Tammas 
was  sitting  rather  sullenly  on  the 
bucket,  boring  a  hole  in  the  pig  with 
his  sarcastic  eye.  Pete  was  passing 
round  a  card,  and  in  time  it  reached 
me.  ''With  Mr.  and^NIrs.  David  Alex- 
ander's compliments,"  was  printed  on 
it,  and  Pete  leered  triumphantly  at  us 
as  it  went  the  round. 

"Weel,  what  think  ye  .^  "  he  asked, 
with  a  pretense  at  modesty. 


Zbc  power  of  Bcautv?.        109 

"Ou,"  said  T'nowhead,  looking  at 
the  others  like  one  who  asked  a  ques- 
tion,  "  ou,  I  think  ;   ay,  ay.'' 

The  others  seemed  to  agree  with  him 
— all  but  Tammas,  who  did  not  care 
to  tie  himself  down  to  an  opinion. 

"  Ou  ay,"  T'nowhead  continued, 
more  confidently,  "  it  is  so,  deceed- 
edly. " 

"  Ye'll  no  ken,"  said  Pete,  chuckling-, 
''what  it  means  .^  " 

''Na,"the  farmer  admitted,  ''na,  I 
canna  say  I  exac'ly  ken  that." 

"I  ken,  though,"  said  Tammas  in 
his  keen  way. 

''Weel,  then,  what  is't  .^  "  demanded 
Pete,  who  had  never  properly  come 
under  Tammas'  spell. 

"  I  ken,"  said  Tammas. 

"  Oot  wi't,  then." 

"  I  dinna  say  it's  lyin'  on  my 
tongue,"  Tammas  replied  in  a  tone  of 
reproof,     "  but   if  ye'll  juist  speak  awa 


no       B  TKainDow  In  ZTbrums. 

aboot  some  other  thing  for  a  meenute 
or  twa,  ril  tell  ye  syne." 

Hendry  said  that  this  was  only 
reasonable,  but  we  could  think  of  no 
subject  at  the  moment,  so  we  only 
stared  at  Tammas  and  waited. 

"I  fathomed  it,"  he  said  at  last,  '*as 
sune  as  my  een  lichted  on't.  It's  one 
o'  the  bit  cards  'at  grand  fowk  slip 
'aneath  doors  when  they  mak  calls,  an' 
their  friends  is  no  in.  Ay,  that's  what 
it  is." 

''I  dinna  say  ye're  wrang, "  Pete 
answered  a  little  annoyed.  ' '  Ay,  weel, 
lads,  of  course  Davit  Alexander's  oor 
Dite  as  we  called  'im,  Dite  Elshioner, 
an'  that's  his  wy  o'  signifyin'  to  us  'at 
he's  married.'' 

''I  assure  ye,"  said  Hendry,  "  Dite's 
doin'  the  thing  in  style." 

"Ay,  we  said  that  when  the  card 
arrived,"  Pete  admitted. 

"I  kent,"  said  Tammas,    "'at  that 


Cbc  power  of  36caut\}.        1 1 1 

was  the  wy  grand  towkdid  wlicn  they 
got  married.  I've  kent  it  a  law^  tinio. 
It's  no  nae  surprise  to  nie. " 

"He's     been     hmi^    in     inarr\iii  . 
Hookey  Crewe  said. 

*'  He  was  thirty  at  Martinmas."  said 
Tete. 

"Thirty,  was  he.**"  said  Hookey. 
"Man,  I'd  buried  twa  wives  by  the 
time  I  was  that  age,  an'  was  castin* 
aboot  for  a  third." 

"I  mind  o'  them,"  Hendry  inter- 
posed. 

"  Ay,"  Hookey  said,  "the  first  twa 
was  angels. "  There  he  paused.  * '  An' 
so's  the  third,"  he  added,  "in  many 
respects. " 

"But  wha's  the  woman  Dite's 
ta'en  ?  "  T'nowhead  or  some  one  of 
the  more  silent  members  of  the  com- 
pany asked  of  Pete. 

"  Ou,  we  dinna  ken  wha  she  is." 
answered  Pete  ;   '  *  but  she'll  be  some 


112        "B.  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

Glasca  lassie,  for  he's  there  noo. 
Look,  lads,  look  at  this.  He  sent  this 
at  the  same  time  ;  its  her  picture." 
Pete  produced  the  silhouette  of  a  young 
lady,  and  handed  it  round. 

"What  do  ye  think  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  assure  ye  !  "  said  Hookey. 

*'Sal,'"  said  Hendry,  even  more 
charmed,   "  Dite's  done  week" 

"  Lat's  see  her  in  a  better  licht,"  said 
Tammas. 

He  stood  up  and  examined  the  pho- 
tograph narrowly,  while  Pete  fidgeted 
with  his  legs. 

''Fairish,"  said  Tammas  at  last. 
**0u,  ay  ;  no  what  I  would  selec'  my- 
sel',  but  a  dainty  bit  stocky  !  Ou,  a 
tasty  crittury  !  ay,  an'  she's  weel  in 
order.  Lads,  she's  a  fine  stoot  kim- 
mer." 

**I  conseeder  her  a  beauty,"  said 
Pete  aggressively. 

''She's  a'  that,"  said  Hendry. 


Zbc  power  of  :©caut^.        113 

"A' I  can  say,"  said  Hookey,  "is 
'at  she  taks  me  most  michty.' 

"She's  no  a  beauty,"  Tammas  main- 
tained ;  "  na,  she  doesna  juist  come 
up  to  that  ;  but  I  dinna  deny  but  what 
shes  weel  faured. " 

"  What  faut  do  ye  find  wi'  her,  Tam- 
mas ?  "  asked  Hendry. 

"  Conseedered  critically,"  said  Tam- 
mas, holding  the  photograph  at  arm's 
length,  "  I  would  sa}'  'at  she — let's 
see,  noo  ;  ay,  I  would  say  'at  she's 
defeecient  in  genteelity. " 

"  Havers,"  said  Pete. 

"Na,"  said  Tammas,  "no  when 
conseedered  critically.  Ye  see  she's 
drawn  lauchin' ;  an'  the  genteel  thing's 
no  to  lauch,  but  juist  to  put  on  a  bit 
smirk.     Ay,  that's  the  genteel   thing." 

"A  smile,  they  ca'  it,"  interposed 
T'nowhead. 

"I  said  a  smile,"  continued  Tam- 
mas. "  Then  there's  her  waist.  I  say 
8 


114       B  MinDow  in  ^brums» 

naething  agin  her  waist,  speakin'  in 
the  ord'nar  meanin'  ;  but,  conseedered 
critically,  there's  a  want  o'  suppleness, 
as    ye    micht   say,    aboot    it.     Ay,    it 

doesna  compare  wi'  the  waist  o' " 

[Here  Tammas  mentioned  a  young 
lady  who  had  recently  married  into  a 
local  county  family.  ] 

"That  was  a  pretty  tiddy,"  said 
Hookey. 

''Ou,  losh,  ay  !  it  made  me  a  kind 
o'  queery  to  look  at  her." 

'' Ye're  ower  kyowowy  (particular), 
Tammas,"  said  Pete. 

''  It  may  be,  Pete,"  Tammas  ad- 
mitted; ''but  I  maun  say  I'm  fond  o' 
a  bonny-looken  wuman,  an'  no  aisy  to 
please  ;  na,  Fm  nat'rally  ane  o'  the 
critical  kind." 

"It's  extror'nar,"  said  T'nowhead, 
"  what  a  poo'er  beauty  has.  I  mind 
when  I  was  a  callant  reedin'  aboot 
Mary  Queen    o'   Scots    till  I  was  fair 


Zbc  power  ot  JBcautg.        115 

mad,  lads  ;  yes,  I  was  fair  mad  at  her 
bein'  deid.  Ou,  I  could  hardly  sleep 
at  nichts  for  thinking  o'  her." 

"Mary  was  spunky  as  weel  as  a 
beauty,"  said  Hookey,  "  an'  that's  the 
kind  I  like.  Lads,  what  a  persuasive 
lid  she  was  !  " 

"  She  got  roondthemen,"  said  Hen- 
dry ;  "ay,  she  turned  them  roond  her 
finger.  That's  the  warst  o'  thae  beau- 
ties. " 

"I  dinna  gainsay,"  said  T'nowhead, 
"but  what  there  was  a  little  o'  the 
deevil  in  ]\Iary,  the  crittur." 

Here  T'nowhead  chuckled,  and  then 
looked  scared. 

"What  Mary  needed,"  said  Tam- 
mas,  "was  a  strong  man  to  manage 
her." 

"Ay,  man,  but  it's  ill  to  manage 
thae  beauties.  They  gie  ye  a  glint  o' 
their  een,  an'  syne  whaur  are  ye  ?  " 

"Ah,   they  can  be  managed,"  said 


ii6        B  IMinDow  in  ^bcums. 

Tammas  complacently.  ' '  There's  nae- 
body  nat'rally  safter  wi'  a  pretty  stocky 
o'  a  bit  wumany  than  mysel' ;  but  for 
a'  that,  if  I  had  been  Mary's  man,  I 
would  hae  stood  nane  o'  her  tantrums. 
'  Na,  Mary,  my  lass,'  I  would  hae 
said,  '  this  winna  do  ;  na,  na,  ye're  a 
bonny  body,  but  ye  maun  mind  'at 
man's  the  superior ;  ay,  man's  the 
lord  o'  creation,  an'  so  ye  maun  juist 
sing  sma'.'  That's  hoo  I  would  hae 
managed  Mary,  the  speerity  crittur  'at 
she  was." 

' '  Ye  would  hae  haen  y er  wark  cut 
oot  for  ye,  Tammas. " 

"Ilka  mornin',"  pursued  Tammas, 
.  *'  I  would  hae  said  to  her  :  '  Mary,'  I 
would  hae  said,  '  wha's  to  wear  thae 
breeks  the  day,  you  or  me  .? '  Ay,  syne 
I  would  hae  ordered  her  to  kindle  the 
fire,  or  if  I  had  been  the  king  of  coorse 
I  would  hae  telt  her  instead  to  ring  the 
bell    an'    hae    the    cloth   laid   for   the 


TLbc  power  ot  JBcaut^.         117 

breakfast.      Ay,    that's  the  wy  to  mak 
the  like  o'  Mary  respec'  ye." 

Pete  and  I  left  them  talking.  He 
had  written  a  letter  to  David  Alexan- 
der, and  wanted  me  to  "  back  "  it. 


ii8       B  TKHlnDow  in  ^brums. 
CHAPTER  X. 

A    MAGNUM    OPUS. 

Two  Bibles,  a  volume  of  sermons 
by  the  learned  Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  a  few 
numbers  of  the  Cheap  Magazine,  that 
had  strayed  from  Dunfermline,  and  a 
''  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  were  the  works 
that  lay  conspicuous  ben  in  the  room. 
Hendry  had  also  a  copy  of  Burns, 
whom  he  always  quoted  in  the  com- 
plete poem,  and  a  collection  of  legends 
in  song  and  prose,  that  Leeby  kept  out 
of  sight  in  a  drawer. 

The  weight  of  my  box  of  books  was 
a  subject  Hendry  was  very  willing  to 
shake  his  head  over,  but  he  never 
showed  any  desire  to  take  off  the  lid. 
Jess,  however,  was  more  curious  ;  in- 


B  /IRa^num  ©pus.  119 

deed,  she  would  have  been  an  omniv- 
orous devourer  of  books  had  it  not 
been  for  her  conviction  that  reading- 
was  idling-.  Until  I  found  her  out, 
she  never  allowed  to  me  that  Leeby 
brought  her  my  books  one  at  a  time. 
Some  of  them  were  novels,  and  Jess 
took  about  ten  minutes  to  each.  She 
confessed  that  what  she  read  was  only 
the  last  chapter,  owing  to  a  consum- 
ing curiosity  to  know  whether  "she 
got  him." 

She  read  all  the  London  parts,  how- 
ever, of  *'The  Heart  of  Midlothian," 
because  London  was  where  Jamie 
lived,  and  she  and  I  had  a  discussion 
about  it  which  ended  in  her  remember- 
ing that  Thrums  once  had  an  author 
of  its  own. 

"Bring  oot  the  book,"  she  said  to 
Leeby  ;  "it  was  put  awa  i'  the  bottom 
drawer  ben  i'  the  room  sax  year  syne, 
an'  I'se  wad  it's  there  yet." 


120       B  lldinDow  in  C:brum5. 

Leeby  came  but  with  a  faded  little 
book,  the  title  already  rubbed  from  its 
shabby  brown  covers.  I  opened  it, 
and  then  all  at  once  I  saw  before  me 
again  the  man  who  wrote  and  printed 
it  and  died.  He  came  hobbling  up 
the  brae,  so  bent  that  his  body  was 
almost  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  and 
his  broken  silk  hat  was  carefully 
brushed  as  in  the  days  when  Janet, 
his  sister,  lived.  There  he  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  brae,  panting. 

I  was  but  a  boy  when  Jimsy  Duthie 
turned  the  corner  of  the  brae  for  the 
last  time,  with  a  score  of  mourners 
behind  him.  While  I  knew  him  there 
was  no  Janet  to  run  to  the  door  to  see 
if  he  was  coming.  So  occupied  was 
Jimsy  with  the  great  affair  of  his  life, 
w^hich  was  brewing  for  thirty  years, 
that  his  neighbors  saw  how  he  missed 
his  sister  better  than  he  realized  it  him- 
self.     Only  his  hat  was  no  longer  care- 


21  /ftaonum  Opus.  121 

fully  brushed,  and  his  coat  hung  awry, 
and  there  was  sometimes  little  reason 
why  he  should  go  home  to  dinner.  It 
is  for  the  sake  of  Janet,  who  adored 
him,  that  we  should  remember  Jimsy 
in  the  days  before  she  died. 

Jimsy  was  a  poet,  and  for  the  space 
of  thirty  years  he  lived  in  a  great  epic 
on  the  Millennium.  This  is  the  book 
presented  to  me  by  Jess,  that  lies  so 
quietly  on  my  topmost  shelf  now. 
Open  it,  however,  and  you  will  find 
that  the  work  is  entitled  "The  Millen- 
nium :  an  Epic  Poem,  in  Twelve 
Books  :  by  James  Duthie."  In  the 
little  hole  in  his  wall  where  Jimsy  kept 
his  books  there  was,  I  have  no  doubt, 
— for  his  effects  were  rouped  before  I 
knew  him  except  by  name, — a  well- 
read  copy  of  ''Paradise  Lost."  Some 
people  would  smile,  perhaps,  if  they 
read  the  two  epics  side  by  side,  and 
others  might  sigh,  for  there  is  a  great 


122        B  TaainDow  in  ^brums. 

deal  in  *'The  Millennium"  that  Milton 
could  take  credit  for.  Jimsy  had  ed- 
ucated himself,  after  the  idea  of  writing 
something  that  the  world  would  not 
willingly  let  die  came  to  him,  and  he 
began  his  book  before  his  education 
was  complete.  So  far  as  I  know,  he 
never  wrote  a  line  that  had  not  to  do 
with  "The  Millennium."  He  was 
ever  a  man  sparing  of  his  plural  tenses, 
and  "The  Millennium"  says  "has" 
for  ' '  liave  "  ;  a  vain  word,  indeed^ 
which  Thrums  would  only  have  per- 
mitted as  a  poetical  license.  The  one 
original  character  in  the  poem  is  the 
devil,  of  whom  Jimsy  gives  a  picture 
that  is  startling  and  graphic,  and  re- 
ceived the  approval  of  the  Auld  Licht 
minister. 

By  trade  Jimsy  was  a  printer,  a 
master-printer  with  no  one  under  him, 
and  he  printed  and  bound  his  book,  ten 
copies  in  all,  as  well  as  wrote  it.     To 


B  /IBagnum  ©pug.  125 

t 

print  the  poem  took  him,  I  dare  say, 
nearly  as  long  as  to  write  it,  and  he 
set  up  the  pages  as  they  were  written, 
one  by  one.  The  book  is  only  printed 
on  one  side  of  the  leaf,  and  each  page 
was  produced  separately  like  a  little 
hand-bill.  Those  who  may  pick  up 
the  book — but  who  will  care  to  do  so  ? 
— will  think  that  the  author  or  his 
printer  could  not  spell — but  they  would 
not  do  Jimsy  that  injustice  if  they 
knew  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
was  produced.  He  had  but  a  small 
stock  of  type,  and  on  many  occasions 
he  ran  out  of  a  letter.  The  letter  e 
tried  him  sorely.  Those  who  knew 
him  best  say  that  he  tried  to  think  of 
words  without  an  e  in  them,  but  when 
he  was  baffled  he  had  to  use  a  little  a 
or  an  o  instead.  He  could  print  cor- 
rectly, but  in  the  book  there  are  a 
good  many  capital  letters  in  the  mid- 
dle of  words,  and  sometimes  there  is 


124        ^  WinDow  in  ^brums. 

a  note  of  interrogation  after  "alas "  or 
"woes  me, "  because  all  the  notes  of 
exclamation  had  been  used  up. 

Jimsy  never  cared  to  speak  about 
his  great  poem  even  to  his  closest 
friends,  but  Janet  told  how  he  read  it 
out  to  her,  and  that  his  whole  body- 
trembled  with  excitement  while  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  as  if  asking 
for  inspiration  that  would  enable  his 
voice  to  do  justice  to  his  writing.  So 
grand  it  was,  said  Janet,  that  her 
stocking  would  slip  from  her  fingers 
as  he  read — and  Janet's  stockings,  that 
she  was  always  knitting  when  not 
otherwise  engaged,  did  not  slip  from 
her  hands  readily.  After  her  death  he 
was  heard  by  his  neighbors  reciting 
the  poem  to  himself,  generally  with 
his  door  locked.  He  is  said  to  have 
declaimed  part  of  it  one  still  evening 
from  the  top  of  the  commonty  like 
one  addressing  a  multitude,  and  the 


a  /Raonum  ©pu6.  125 

idlers  who  had  crept  up  to  jeer  at  him 
fell  back  when  they  saw  his  face. 
He  walked  through  them,  they  told, 
with  his  old  body  straight  once  more, 
and  a  queer  light  playing  on  his  face. 
His  lips  are  moving  as  I  see  him  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  the  brae.  So  he 
passed  from  youth  to  old  age,  and  all 
his  life  seemed  a  dream,  except  that 
part  of  it  in  which  he  was  writing,  or 
printing,  or  stitching,  or  binding  ''The 
Millennium.''  At  last  the  work  was 
completed. 

"It  is  finished,"  he  printed  at  the 
end  of  the  last  book.  "The  task  of 
thirty  years  is  over." 

It  is  indeed  over.  No  one  ever  read 
"The  Millennium."  I  am  not  going 
to  sentimentalize  over  my  copy,  for 
how  much  of  it  have  I  read.^^  But 
neither  shall  I  say  that  it  was  written 
to  no  end. 

You  may  care  to  know  the   last  of 


126       :a  WinDow  in  ^brums, 

Jimsy,  though  in  one  sense  he  was 
blotted  out  when  the  last  copy  was 
bound.  He  had  saved  one  hundred 
pounds  by  that  time,  and  being  now 
neither  able  to  work  nor  to  live  alone, 
his  friends  cast  about  for  a  home  for 
his  remaining  years.  He  was  very 
spent  and  feeble,  yet  he  had  the  fear 
that  he  might  be  still  alive  when  all 
his  money  was  gone.  After  that  was 
the  workhouse.  He  covered  sheets 
of  paper  with  calculations  about  how 
long  the  hundred  pounds  would  last  if 
he  gave  away  for  board  and  lodgings 
ten  shillings,  nine  shillings,  seven  and 
sixpence  a  week.  At  last,  with  sore 
misgivings,  he  went  to  live  with  a 
family  who  took  him  for  eight  shil- 
lings. Less  than  a  month  afterward 
he  died. 


Jibe  (Bbost  CraDlc.  127 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    GHOST    CRADLE. 

Our  dinner  hour  was  12  o'clock,  and 
Hendry,  for  a  not  incomprehensible 
reason,  called  this  meal  his  brose. 
Frequently,  however,  while  I  was  there 
to  share  the  expense,  broth  was  put  on 
the  table,  with  beef  to  follow  in  clean 
plates,  much  to  Hendry's  distress,  for 
the  comfortable  and  usual  practice  was 
to  eat  the  beef  from  the  broth-plates. 
Jess,  however,  having  three  whole 
white  plates  and  two  cracked  ones, 
insisted  on  the  meals  being  taken  gen- 
teelly, and  her  husband,  with  a  look 
at  me,  gave  way. 

"Half  a  pound  o'  boiling  beef,  an' 
a  penny  bone,"  was  Leeby's  almost  in- 


128       B  minDow  In  Zbmms, 

variable  order  when  she  dealt  with  the 
flesher,  and  Jess  had  always  neighbors 
poorer  than  herself,  who  got  a  plateful 
of  the  broth.  She  never  had  anything 
without  remembering  some  old  body 
who  would  be  the  better  of  a  little 
of  it. 

Among  those  who  must  have  missed 
Jess  sadly  after  she  was  gone  was 
Johnny  Proctor,  a  half-witted  man 
who,  because  he  could  not  work,  re- 
mained straight  at  a  time  of  Hfe  when 
most  weavers,  male  and  female,  had 
lost  some  inches  of  their  stature.  For 
as  far  back  as  my  memory  goes,  Johnny 
had  got  his  brose  three  times  a  week 
from  Jess,  his  custom  being  to  walk 
in  without  ceremony,  and,  drawing  a 
stool  to  the  table,  tell  Leeby  that  he 
was  now  ready.  One  day,  however, 
when  I  was  in  the  garden  putting  some 
rings  on  a  fishing-wand,  Johnny  pushed 
by  me,  with  no  sign  of  recognition  on 


TLbc  (Bbost  CraMe.  129 

his  face.  I  addressed  him,  and,  after 
pausing  undecidedly,  he  ignored  me. 
When  he  came  to  the  door,  instead  of 
flinging  it  open  and  walking  in,  he 
knocked  primly,  which  surprised  me 
so  much  that  I  fohowed  him. 

"  Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives  ? "  he  asked,  when  Leeby,  with  a 
face  ready  to  receive  the  minister  him- 
self, came  at  length  to  the  door. 

I  knew  that  the  gentility  of  the  knock 
had  taken  both  her  and  her  mother 
aback. 

"  Hoots,  Johnny,"  said  Leeby,  "  what 
haver's  this  .?     Come  awa  in." 

Johnny  seemed  annoyed. 

"Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives?  "  he  repeated. 

*'Say  'at  it  is,"  cried  Jess,  who  was 
quicker  in  the  uptake  than  her  daugh- 
ter. 

"Of  course  this  is   whaur  IMistress 
^McQumpha  lives,"  Leeby   then  said, 
9 


130        21  llXIlinDow  in  ^bvums. 

"  as  weel  ye  ken,  for  ye  had  yer  dinner 
here  no  twa  hours  syne." 

"Then,"  said  Johnny,  "Mistress 
Tally's  compliments  to  her,  and  would 
she  kindly  lend  the  christenin'-robe, 
an'  also  the  tea-tray,  if  the  same  be  na 
needed  ?  " 

Having  delivered  his  message  as  in- 
structed, Johnny  consented  to  sit  down 
until  the  famous  christening-robe  and 
the  tray  were  ready,  but  he  would  not 
talk,  for  that  was  not  in  the  bond. 
Jess'  sweet  face  beamed  over  the  com- 
pliment-Mrs. Tully,  known  on  ordinary 
occasions  as  Jean  McTaggart,  had  paid 
her,  and  after  Johnny  had  departed 
laden,  she  told  me  how  the  tray,  which 
had  a  great  bump  in  the  middle,  came 
into  her  possession. 

"  Ye've  often  heard  me  speak  aboot 
the  time  when  I  was  a  lassie  workin' 
at  the  farm  o'  the  bog  ?  Ay,  that  was 
afore  me  an'  Hendry  kent  ane  anithei 


Zbc  0bost  CraDle.  131 

an*  I  was  as  fleet  on  my  feet  in  thae 
days  as  Leeby  is  noo.  It  was  Sam'l 
Fletcher  'at  was  the  farmer,  but  he 
maun  hae  been  gone  afore  you  was 
mair  than  born.  Mebbe,  though,  ye 
ken  'at  he  was  a  terrible  invahd,  an'  for 
the  hinmost  years  o'  his  Hfe  he  sat  in  a 
muckle  chair  nicht  an'  day.  Ay,  when 
I  took  his  dinner  to  'im,  on  "at  very 
tray  'at  Johnny  cam  for,  I  Httle  thocht 
'at  by  an'  by  I  would  be  sae  keepit  in 
a  chair  mysel'. 

"  But  the  thinkin'  o'  Sam'l  Fletcher's 
case  is  ane  o'  the  things  'at  maks  me 
awfu'  thankfu'  for  the  lenient  wy  the 
Lord  has  aye  dealt  wi'  me  ;  for  Sam'l 
couldna  move  oot  o'  the  chair,  aye 
sleepin'  in't  at  nicht,  an'  I  can  come 
an'  gang  between  mine  an'  my  bed. 
Mebbe,  ye  think  Fm  no  much  better 
off  than  Sam'l,  but  that's  a  terrible 
mistak.  What  a  glory  it  would  hae 
been  to  him  if  he  could  hae  gone  frae 


132        B  liCKnDow  in  ^brums. 

one  end  o'  the  kitchen  to  the  ither  ! 
Ay,  I'm  sure  o'  that. 

"  Sam'l  was  rale  weel  Hked,  for  he 
was  saft-spoken  to  everybody,  an'  fond 
o'  ha'en  a  gossip  wi'  ony  ane  'at  was 
aboot  the  farm.  We  didna  care  sae 
muckle  for  the  wife,  Eppie  Lownie, 
for  she  managed  the  farm,  an'  she  was 
fell  hard  an'  terrible  reserved  we  thocht, 
no  even  likin'  ony  body  to  get  friendly 
wi'  the  mester,  as  we  called  Sam'l. 
Ay,  we  made  a  richt  mistak. " 

As  I  had  heard  frequently  of  this 
queer,  mournful  mistake  made  by  those 
who  considered  Sam'l  unfortunate  in 
his  wife,  I  turned  Jess  on  the  main  line 
of  her  story. 

"It  was  the  ghost  cradle,  as  they 
named  it,  'at  I  meant  to  tell  ye  aboot. 
The  bog  was  a  bigger  farm  in  thae 
days  than  noo,  but  I  daursay  it  has  the 
new  steadin'  yet.  Ay,  it  winna  be 
new  noo,  but  at  the  time  there  was  sic 


Zbc  0bO5t  CraDlc.  133 

a  commotion  aboot  the  ghost  cradle, 
they  were  juist  puttin'  the  new  steadin' 
up.  There  was  sax  or  mair  masons  at 
it,  wi'  the  lads  on  the  farm  helpin',  an' 
as  they  were  all  sleepin'  at  the  farm, 
there  was  great  stir  aboot  the  place. 
I  couldna  tell  ye  hoo  the  story  aboot 
the  farm  s  bein'  haunted  rose,  to  begin 
wi',  but  I  mind  fine  hoo  field  I  was  ; 
ay,  an'  no  only  me,  but  every  man- 
body  an'  woman-body  on  the  farm.  It 
was  aye  late  'at  the  soond  began,  an' 
we  never  saw  naething — we  juist  heard 
it.  The  masons  said  they  wouldna 
hae  been  sae  field  if  they  could  hae 
secn't,  but  it  never  was  seen.  It  had 
the  soond  o'  a  cradle  rockin',  an'  when 
we  lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin',  it  grew 
louder  an'  louder  till  it  wasna  to  be 
borne,  an'  the  woman-folk  fair  skirled 
wi'  fear.  The  mester  was  intimate  wi' 
a'  the  stories  aboot  ghosts  an'  water- 
kelpies  an'  sic  like,  an'  we  couldna  help 


134       ^  liJollnDow  in  G;brum0. 

listenin'  to  them.  But  he  aye  said  'at 
ghosts  'at  was  juist  heard  an'  no  seen 
was  the  maist  fearsome  an'  wicked. 
For  all  there  was  sic  fear  ower  the  hale 
farm-toon  'at  naebody  would  gang 
ower  the  door  alane  after  the  gloamin' 
cam,  the  mester  said  he  wasna  fleid 
to  sleep  i'  the  kitchen  by  'imsel'.  We 
thocht  it  richt  brave  o'  im,  for  ye  see 
he  was  as  helpless  as  a  bairn. 

"  Richt  queer  stories  rose  aboot  the 
cradle,  an'  traveled  to  the  ither  farms. 
The  wife  didna  like  them  ava,  for  it 
was  said  'at  there  maun  hae  been  some 
awful  murder  o"  an  infant  on  the  farm, 
or  we  wouldnabe  haunted  by  a  cradle. 
Syne  folk  began  to  mind  'at  there  had 
been  nae  bairns  born  on  the  farm  as 
far  back  as  onybody  kent,  an'  it  was 
said  'at  some  lang  syne  crime  had 
made  the  bog  cursed. 

"  Dinna  think  'at  we  juist  lay  in  our 
beds  or  sat  round  the  fire  shakin'  wi' 


x£bc  (5bO0t  CraMe.  135 

fear.  Everything  'at  could  be  dune  was 
dune.  In  the  daytime,  when  naething 
way  heard,  the  masons  explored  a'  place 
i'  the  farm,  in  the  hope  o'  findin'  oot  'at 
the  soond  was  caused  by  sic  a  thing 
as  the  wind  playin'  on  the  wood  in  the 
garret.  Even  at  nichts,  when  they 
couldna  sleep  wi'  the  soond,  I've  kent 
them  rise  in  a  body  an'  gang  all  ower 
the  house  wi'  lichts.  I've  seen  them 
climbin'  on  the  new  steadin',  crawlin' 
alang  the  rafters  haudin'  their  cruizey 
lamps  afore  them,  an'  us  woman-bodies 
shiverin'  wi'  fear  at  the  door.  It  was 
on  ane  o'  thae  nichts  'at  a  mason  fell 
off  the  rafters  an'  broke  his  leg.  Weel, 
sic  a  state  was  the  men  in  to  find  oot 
what  it  was  'at  was  terrifyin'  them  sae 
muckle,  'at  the  rest  o'  them  climbed  up 
at  aince  to  the  place  he'd  fallen  frae, 
thinkin'  there  was  something  there  'at 
'  had  fleid  'im.  But  though  they  crawled 
back  an'  forrit  there  was  naething  ava. 


136        21  MinOow  in  ^brums, 

"The  rockin'  was  louder,  we  thocht, 
after  that  nicht,  an'  syne  the  men  said 
it  would  go  on  till  somebody  was  killed. 
That  idea  took  a  richt  haud  o'  them, 
an'  twa  ran  awa  back  to  Tilliedrum, 
whaur  they  had  come  frae.  They 
gaed  thegither  i'  the  middle  o'  the 
nicht,  an'  it  was  thocht  next  mornin' 
'at  the  ghost   had  spirited  them  awa. 

"Ye  couldna  conceive  hoo  low- 
spirited  we  all  were  after  the  masons 
had  gien  up  hope  o'  findin'  a  nat'ral 
cause  for  the  soond.  At  ord'nar  times 
there's  no  ony  mair  lichtsome  place 
than  a  farm  after  the  men  hae  come 
in  to  their  supper,  but  at  the  bog  we 
sat  dour  an'  sullen  ;  an'  there  wasna 
a  mason  or  a  farm-servant  'at  would 
gang  by  'imsel'  as  far  as  the  end  o'  the 
hoose  whaur  the  peats  was  keepit. 
The  mistress  maun  hae  saved  some 
siller  that  spring  through  the  Egyp-* 
tians    (gypsies)    kcepin'   awa,    for  the 


^be  (5b05t  CraDle.  137 

farm  had  got  sic  an  ill  name  'at  nae 
tinkler  would  come  near't  at  nicht. 
The  tailorman  an'  his  laddie,  'at  should 
hae  bidden  wi'  us  to  sew  things  for  the 
men,  walkit  off  fair  skeered  one  morn- 
in',  an'  settled  doon  at  the  farm  o' 
Cragiebuckle  fower  mile  awa,  whaur 
our  lads  had  to  gae  to  them.  Ay,  I 
mind  the  tailor's  sendin'  the  laddie  for 
the  money  ow'n  him  ;  he  hadna  the 
specrit  to  venture  again  within  soond 
o'  the  cradle  'imsel'.  The  men  on  tlie 
farm,  though,  couldna  blame  "im  for 
that.  They  w^ere  juist  as  flichtered 
themsels,  an'  mony  a  time  I  saw  them 
hittin'  the  dogs  for  whinin'  at  the  soond. 
The  wy  the  dogs  took  on  was  fear- 
some in  itsel',  for  they  seemed  to  ken, 
aye  when  nicht  cam  on,  'at  therockin' 
would  sune  begin,  an'  if  they  werena 
chained  they  cam  runnin'  to  the  hoose. 
I  hae  heard  the  hale  glen  fu,  as  ye 
micht  say,  wi'  the  whinin'  o'  dogs,  for 


138       B  "MinDow  in  ^brums. 

the  dogs  on  the  other  farms  took  up 
the  cry,  an'  in  a  glen  ye  can  hear 
soonds  terrible  far  awa'  at  nicht. 

"As  lang  as  we  sat  i'  the  kitchen, 
listenin'  to  what  the  mester  had  to  say 
aboot  the  ghosts  in  his  young  days, 
the  cradle  would  be  still,  but  we 
were  nae  suner  awa'  speritless  to  our 
beds  than  it  began,  an*  sometimes  it 
lasted  till  mornin.'  We  lookit  upon 
the  mester  almost  wi'  awe,  sittin'  there 
sae  helpless  in  his  chair,  an"  no  fleid 
to  be  left  alane.  He  had  lang  white 
hair,  an'  a  saft  bonny  face  'at  would 
hae  made  'im  respeckit  by  onybody, 
an'  aye  when  we  speired  if  he  wasna 
fleid  to  be  left  alane,  he  said,  'Them 
'at  has  a  clear  conscience  has  naething 
to  fear  frae  ghosts.' 

"There  was  some  'at  said  the  curse 
would  never  leave  the  farm  till  the 
house  was  razed  to  the  ground,  an' 
it's  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  ye  when  I  say 


Zbc  ©best  GraMe.  139 

there  was  talk  among  the  men  aboot 
settin"t  on  tire.  The  mester  was  richt 
stern  when  he  heard  o'  that,  quotin' 
frae  Scripture  in  a  solemn  wy  'at 
abashed  the  masons,  but  he  said  'at  in 
his  opeenion  there  was  a  bairn  buried 
on  the  farm,  an'  till  it  was  found  the 
cradle  would  go  on  rockin'.  After 
that  the  masons  dug  in  a  lot  o"  places 
lookin'  for  the  body,  an'  they  found 
some  queer  things,  too,  but  never  nae 
sign  o"  a  murdered  litlin'.  Ay,  I  dinna 
ken  what  would  hae  happened  if  the 
commotion  had  gaen  on  muckle  langer. 
One  thing  I'm  sure  o'  is  'at  the  mistress 
would  hae  gaen  daft,  she  took  it  a'  sae 
terrible  to  heart. 

*'  I  lauch  at  it  noo,  but  I  tell  ye  I 
used  to  tak  my  heart  to  my  bed  in  my 
mooth.  If  ye  hinna  heard  the  story, 
I  dinna  think  ye'll  be  able  to  guess 
what  the  ghost  cradle  was." 

I  said  I  had  been  trying  to  think 
what  the  tray  had  to  do  with  it. 


140        U  "minnow  in  ^brums. 

"  It  had  everything  to  do  wi't,"  said 
Jess  ;  "  an'  if  the  masons  had  kent  hoo 
that  cradle  was  rockit,  I  think  they 
would  hae  killed  the  mester.  It  was 
Eppie  'at  found  oot,  an'  she  telt  nae- 
body  but  me,  though  mony  a  ane  kens 
noo.  I  see  ye  canna  mak  it  oot  yet, 
so  ril  tell  ye  what  the  cradle  was. 
The  tray  was  keepit  against  the  kitchen 
wall  near  the  mester,  an'  he  played 
on't  wi'  his  foot.  He  made  it  gang 
bump  bump,  an'  the  soond  was  juist 
like  a  cradle  rockin'.  Ye  could  hardly 
believe  sic  a  thing  would  hae  made 
that  din,  but  it  did,  an'  ye  see  we  lay 
in  ourbeds  hearkenin' for't.  Ay,  when 
Eppie  telt  me,  I  could  scarce  believe 
'at  that  guid  devout  lookin'  man  could 
hae  been  sae  wicked.  Ye  see,  when 
he  found  hoo  terrified  we  a'  were,  he 
keepit  it  up.  The  wy  Eppie  found 
out  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day  was  by 
wonderin'  at   'im  sleepin'  sae   muckle 


Zbe  0bO5t  CraMe.  141 

in  the  daytime.  He  did  that  so  as  to 
be  fresh  for  his  sport  at  nicht.  What 
a  tine  releegious  man  we  thoucht  'im, 
too! 

"Eppie  couldna  bear  the  very  sicht 
o'  the  tray  after  that,  an'  she  telt  me 
to  break  it  up  ;  but  I  keepit  it,  ye  see. 
The  lump  i'  the  middle's  the  mark,  as 
ye  may  say,  o'  the  auld  man's  foot." 


142        a  "WHinDow  in  Q:brum0, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF    A    WIFE. 

Were  Jess  still  alive  to  tell  the  life- 
story  of  Sam'l  Fletcher  and  his  wife, 
you  could  not  hear  it  and  sit  still. 
The  ghost  cradle  is  but  a  page  from 
the  black  history  of  a  woman  who 
married,  to  be  blotted  out  from  that 
hour.  One  case  of  the  kind  I  myself 
have  known,  of  a  woman  so  good, 
mated  to  a  man  so  selfish,  that  I  can- 
not think  of  her  even  now  with  a  steady 
mouth.  Hers  was  the  tragedy  of  liv- 
ing on,  more  mournful  than  the  tragedy 
that  kills.  In  Thrums  the  weavers 
spoke  of  "  lousing  "  from  their  looms, 
removing  the  chains,  and  there  is 
something    woful    in    that.      But    pity 


^be  Zxhqc^^  of  a  "Mite,       143 

poor  Nanny  Coutts,  who  took  her 
chains  to  bed  with  her. 

Nanny  was  buried  a  montli  or  more 
before  I  came  to  the  house  on  the  brae, 
and  even  in  Thrums  the  dead  are  sel- 
dom remembered  for  so  long  a  time  as 
that.  But  it  was  only  after  Sanders 
was  left  alone  that  we  learned  what  a 
woman  she  had  been,  and  how  basely 
we  had  wronged  her.  She  was  an 
angel,  Sanders  went  about  whining 
when  he  had  no  longer  a  woman  to  ill- 
treat,  lie  had  this  sentimental  way 
with  him,  but  it  lost  its  effect  after  we 
knew  the  man. 

"A  deevil  couldna  hae  deserved 
waur  treatment,"  Tammas  Haggart 
said  to  him;  "gang  oot  o'  my  sicht, 
man  !  " 

''I'll  blame  mysel'  till  I  die,"  Jess 
said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "for  no 
understandin'  puir  Nanny  better." 

So  Nanny  got  sympathy  at  last,  but 


144       ^  "MinDow  in  ^brums, 

not  until  her  forgiving  soul  had  left  hei 
tortured  body.  There  was  many  a 
kindly  heart  in  Thrums  that  would 
have  gone  out  to  her  in  her  lifetime, 
but  we  could  not  have  loved  her  with- 
out upbraiding  him,  and  she  would  not 
buy  sympathy  at  the  price.  What  a 
little  story  it  is,  and  how  few  words 
are  required  to  tell  it !  He  was  a  bad 
husband  to  her,  and  she  kept  it  secret. 
That  is  Nanny  s  life  summed  up.  It 
is  all  that  was  left  behind  when  her 
coffin  went  down  the  brae.  Did  she 
love  him  to  the  end,  or  was  she  only 
doing  what  she  thought  her  duty.?  It 
is  not  for  me  even  to  guess.  A  good 
woman  who  suffers  is  altogether 
beyond  man's  reckoning.  To  such 
heights  of  self-sacrifice  we  cannot  rise. 
It  crushes  us  ;  it  ought  to  crush  us  on 
to  our  knees.  For  us  who  saw  Nanny, 
infirm,  shrunken,  and  so  weary,  yet 
a   type   of  the    noblest   womanhood, 


^bc  ZxaQctf^  of  a  TlDllte.       145 

suffering  for  years,  and  misunderstood 
her  to  the  end,  what  expiation  can 
there  be?  I  do  not  want  to  storm 
at  the  man  who  made  her  life  so 
burdensome.  Too  many  years  have 
passed  for  that,  nor  would  Nanny 
take  it  kindly  if  I  called  her  man 
names. 

Sanders  worked  little  after  his  mar- 
riage. He  had  a  sore  back,  he  said, 
which  became  a  torture  if  he  leant  for- 
ward at  his  loom.  What  truth  there 
was  in  this  I  cannot  say,  but  not  every 
weaver  in  Thrums  could  ' '  louse " 
when  his  back  grew  sore.  Nanny 
went  to  the  loom  in  his  place,  filling 
as  well  as  weaving,  and  he  walked 
about,  dressed  better  than  the  common, 
and  with  cheerful  words  for  those  who 
had  time  to  listen.  Nanny  got  no  ap- 
proval even  for  doing  his  work  as  well 
as  her  own,  for  they  were  understood 
to  have  money,  and  Sanders  let  us 
10 


146        B  "MinDow  in  ^brums, 

think  her  merely  greedy.     We  drifted 
into  his  opinions. 

Had  Jess  been  one  of  those  who 
could  go  about,  she  would,  I  think, 
have  read  Nanny  better  than  the  rest 
of  us,  for  her  intellect  was  bright  and 
always  led  her  straight  to  her  neigh- 
bors' hearts.  But  Nanny  visited  no 
one,  and  so  Jess  only  knew  her  by 
hearsay.  Nanny's  standoffishness,  as 
it  was  called,  was  not  a  popular  virtue, 
and  she  was  blamed  still  more  for  try- 
ing to  keep  her  husband  out  of  other 
people's  houses.  He  was  so  frank  and 
full  of  gossip,  and  she  was  so  reserved. 
He  would  go  everywhere,  and  she  no- 
w^here.  He  had  been  known  to  ask 
neighbors  to  tea,  and  she  had  shown 
that  she  wanted  them  away,  or  even 
begged  them  not  to  come.  We  were 
not  accustomed  to  go  behind  the  face 
of  a  thing,  and  so  we  sat  down  Nanny's 
inhospitality  to  churlishness  or  greed. 


XLbc  Cra(^cDv>  ot  a  "Uaitc.       147 

Only  after  her  death,  when  other 
women  had  to  attend  him,  did  we  get 
to  know  what  a  tyrant  Sanders  was 
at  his  own  hearth.  The  ambition  of 
Nanny's  Hfe  was  that  we  should  never 
know  it,  that  we  should  continue  ex- 
tolling- him,  and  say  what  we  chose 
about  herself.  She  knew  that  if  we 
went  much  about  the  house  and  saw 
how  he  treated  her,  Sanders  would 
cease  to  be  a  respected  man  in  Thrums. 

So  neat  in  his  dress  was  Sanders, 
that  he  was  seldom  seen  abroad  in 
corduroys.  His  blue  bonnet  for  every- 
day wear  was  such  as  even  well-to-do 
farmers  only  wore  at  fair-time,  and  it 
was  said  that  he  had  a  handkerchief 
for  every  day  in  the  week.  Jess  often 
held  him  up  to  Hendry  as  a  model  of 
courtesy  and  polite  manners. 

"Him  an'  Nanny's  no  wecl  match- 
ed, "  she  used  to  say,  ' '  for  he  has  g-rand 
ideas,  an'  she's  o'  the  commonest.     It 


148        a  TlCltnDow  in  ^brums. 

maun  be  a  richt  trial  to  a  man  wi'  his 
fine  tastes  to  hae  a  wife  'at's  wrapper's 
never  even  on,  an'  wha  doesna  wash 
her  mutch  aince  in  a  month." 

It  is  true  that  Nanny  was  a  slattern, 
but  only  because  she  married  into 
slavery.  She  was  kept  so  busy  wash- 
ing and  ironing  for  Sanders  that  she 
ceased  to  care  how  she  looked  herself. 
What  did  it  matter  whether  her  mutch 
was  clean  ?  Weaving  and  washing 
and  cooking,  doing  the  work  of  a  bread- 
winner as  well  as  of  a  housewife,  hers 
was  soon  a  body  prematurely  old,  on 
which  no  wrapper  would  sit  becom- 
ingly. Before  her  face,  Sanders  would 
hint  that  her  slovenly  ways  and  dress 
tried  him  sorely,  and  in  company  at 
least,  she  only  bowed  her  head.  We 
were  given  to  respecting  those  who 
worked  hard,  but  Nanny,  we  thought, 
was  a  woman  of  means,  and  Sanders 
let  us  call  her  a  miser.     He  was  always 


Cbc  C^aoc^v»  ot  a  XUitc.       149 

anxious,  he  said,  to  be  generous,  but 
Nanny  would  not  let  him  assist  a  starv- 
ing child.  They  had  really  not  a 
penny  beyond  what  Nanny  earned  at 
the  loom,  and  now  we  know  how  San- 
ders shook  her  if  she  did  not  earn 
enough.  His  v^anity  was  responsible 
for  the  story  about  her  wealth,  and  she 
would  not  have  us  think  him  vain. 

Because  she  did  so  much,  we  said 
that  she  was  as  strong  as  a  cart-horse. 
The  doctor  who  attended  her  during 
the  last  week  of  her  life  discovered  tliat 
she  had  never  been  well.  Yet  we  had 
often  wondered  at  her  letting  Sanders 
pit  his  own  potatoes  when  he  was  so 
unable. 

"Them  'at's  strong,  ye  see,"  Sanders 
explained,  "  doesna  ken  what  illness 
is,  an'  so  it's  nat'ral  they  shouldna 
sympathize  wi'  onweel  fowk.  Ay,  I'm 
rale  thankfu'  'at  Nanny  keeps  her 
health.     I  often  envy  her." 


150       21  MinOow  in  ^brums. 

These  were  considered  creditable 
sentiments,  and  so  they  might  have 
been  had  Nanny  uttered  them.  Thus 
easily  Sanders  built  up  a  reputation  for 
never  complaining.  I  know  now  that 
he  was  a  hard  and  cruel  man,  who 
should  have  married  a  shrew  ;  but 
while  Nanny  lived  I  thought  he  had  a 
beautiful  nature.  Many  a  time  I  have 
spoken  with  him  at  Hendry's  gate,  and 
felt  the  better  of  his  heartiness. 

"I  mauna  complain,"  he  always 
said  ;    ' '  na,  we  maun  juist  fecht  awa. " 

Little,  indeed,  had  he  to  complain 
of,  and  little  did  he  fight  away. 

Sanders  went  twice  to  church  every 
Sabbath,  and  thrice  when  he  got  the 
chance.  There  was  no  man  who 
joined  so  lustily  in  singing  or  looked 
straighter  at  the  minister  during  the 
prayer.  I  have  heard  the  minister  say 
that  Sanders'  constant  attendance  was 
an  encouragement  and  a  help  to  him. 


Zbc  Cra^cO^  ot  a  iXXitc,       151 

Nanny  had  been  a  great  church-goer 
when  she  was  a  maiden,  but  after  her 
marriage  she  only  went  in  the  after- 
noons, and  a  time  came  when  she 
ceased  altogether  to  attend.  The  min- 
ister admonished  her  many  times,  tell- 
ing her,  among  other  things,  that  her 
irreligious  ways  were  a  distress  to  her 
husband.  She  never  replied  that  she 
could  not  go  to  church  in  the  fore- 
noon, because  Sanders  insisted  on  a 
hot  meal  being  waiting  him  when  the 
services  ended.  But  it  was  true  that 
Sanders,  for  appearances'  sake,  would 
have  had  her  go  to  church  in  the  after- 
noon. It  is  now  believed  that  on  this 
point  alone  did  she  refuse  to  do  as  she 
was  bidden.  Nanny  was  very  far 
from  perfect,  and  the  reason  she  for- 
sook the  kirk  utterly  was  because  she 
had  no  Sabbath  clothes. 

She  died   as  she  had    lived,    saying 
not  a  word  when  the  minister,  think- 


152        B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

ing  it  his  duty,  drew  a  cruel  compari- 
son between  her  life  and  her  husband's. 

"I  got  my  first  glimpse  into  the 
real  state  of  affairs  in  that  house," 
the  doctor  told  me  one  night  on 
the  brae,  the  day  before  she  died. 
* '  '  You're  sure  there's  no  hope  for  me  ? ' 
she  asked  wistfully,  and  when  I  had  to 
tell  the  truth  she  sank  back  on  the 
pillow  with  a  look  of  joy. " 

Nanny  died  with  a  lie  on  her  lips. 
*'Ay,"  she  said,  "Sanders  has  been  a 
guid  man  to  me." 


Rafting  tbc  JBest  of  It.        153 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MAKING  THE    BKST  OF  IT. 

Hendry  had  a  way  of  resuming  a 
conversation  where  he  had  left  off  the 
night  before.  He  would  revolve  a 
topic  in  his  mind,  too,  and  then  begin 
aloud,  "  He's  a  queer  ane,"  or  "  Say 
ye  so  ? "  which  was  at  times  perplex- 
ing. With  the  whole  day  before 
them,  none  of  the  family  was  incHned 
to  waste  strength  in  talk  ;  but  one 
morning  when  he  was  blowing  the 
steam  off  his  porridge,  Hendry  said, 
suddenly  : 

'*  He's  hame  again." 

The  women-folk  gave  him  time  to 
say  to  whom  he  was  referring,  which 
he  occasionally  did  as  an  after-thought. 
But   he   began    to   sup   his    porridge, 


54 


B  WinDow  In  ^brums. 


making  eyes  as  it  went  steaming  down 
his  throat. 

"I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  mean,"  Jess 
said,  while  Leeby,  who  was  on  her 
knees  rubbing  the  hearthstone  a  bright 
blue,  paused  to  catch  her  father's 
answer. 

"  Jeames  Geogehan,"  replied  Hen- 
dry, with  the  horn  spoon  in  his  mouth. 

Leeby  turned  to  Jess  for  enlighten- 
ment. 

' '  Geogehan, "  repeated  Jess  ;  * '  what  I 
no  little  Jeames  'at  ran  awa .? " 

"Ay,  ay,  but  he's  a  muckle  stoot 
man  noo,  an'  gey  gray. " 

"  Ou,  I  dinna  wonder  at  that.  It's 
a  guid  forty  year  since  he  ran  off." 

"I  waurant  ye  couldna  say  exact 
hoo  lang  syne  it  is  }  " 

Hendry  asked  this  question  because 
Jess  was  notorious  for  her  memory, 
and  he  gloried  in  putting  it  to  the  test. 

''  Let's  see,"  she  said. 


^aftinfl  tbe  :©c5t  ot  ITt.       155 

"But  wha  is  he?"  asked  Leeby. 
*  i  never  kent  nae  Geogehans  in 
liirums. " 

"  Weel,  its  forty-one  years  syne 
come  ■Michaelmas,"'  said  Jess. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  ken  ?  " 

"I  ken  fine.  Ye  mind  his  father 
had  been  lickin'  'im,  an'  he  ran  awa 
in  a  passion,  cryin'  oot  'at  he  would 
never  come  back  ?  Ay,  then,  he  had 
a  pair  o'  boots  on  at  the  time,  an'  his 
father  ran  after  'im  an'  took  them  aff 
'im.  The  boots  was  the  last  'at  Davie 
jMearns  made,  an'  it's  fully  ane-an'- 
forty  years  since  Davie  fell  ower  the 
quarry  on  the  day  o'  the  hill-market. 
That  settles't.  Ay,  an'  Jeames'U  be 
turned  fifty  noo,  for  he  was  comin'  on 
for  ten  year  auld  at  that  time.  Ay, 
ay,  an'  he's  come  back.  What  a  state 
Eppie'll  be  in  !  " 

"Tell's  wha  he  is,  mother." 

**  Od,  he's  Eppie  Guthrie's  son.     Her 


156        'B  Wiinttovo  in  ^brums. 

man  was  William  Geogehan,  but  he 
died  afore  you  was  born,  an'  as  Jeames 
was  their  only  bairn,  the  name  o' 
Geogehan's  been  a  kind  o'  lost  sicht 
o'.  Hae  ye  seen  him,  Hendry  ?  Is't 
true  'at  he  made  a  fortune  in  thae  far- 
awa  countries  ?  Eppie'll  be  blawin' 
aboot  him  richt  ?  " 

"There's  nae  doot  aboot  the  siller," 
said  Hendry,  "for  he  drove  in  a  car- 
riage frae  Tilliedrum,  an'  they  say  he 
needs  a  closet  to  hang  his  claes  in, 
there's  sic  a  heap  o'  them.  Ay,  but 
that's  no  a'  he's  brocht,  na,  far  frae 
a'." 

**  Dinna  gang  awa  till  ye've  telt's  a' 
aboot  'im.     What  mair  has  he  brocht  ?  " 

"  He's  brocht  a  wife,"  said  Hendry, 
twisting  his  face  curiously. 

**  There's  naething  surprisin'  in  that. " 

"Ay,  but  there  is,  though.  Ye  see, 
Eppie  had  a  letter  frae  'im  no  mony 
weeks  syne,  sayin'  'at  he   wasna  deid, 


i^aftiiiij  tbc  iBc6t  ot  irt.       157 

an'  he  was  comin'  hame  wi'  a  fortune. 
He  said,  too,  'at  he  was  a  single  man, 
an'  she's  been  boastin'  aboot  that,  so 
ye  may  think  'at  she  got  a  surprise 
when  he  hands  a  wuman  oot  o'  the 
carriage." 

"An'  no  a  pleasant  ane,"  said  Jess. 
"  Had  he  been  leein'  ?  " 

' '  Na,  he  was  single  when  he  wrote, 
an'  single  when  he  got  the  length  o' 
Tilliedrum.  Ye  see,  he  fell  in  wi*  the 
lassie  there,  an'  juist  gaed  clean  aft  his 
heid  aboot  her.  After  managin'  to 
withstand  the  women  o'  foreign  lands 
for  a'  thae  years,  he  gaed  fair  skeer 
aboot  this  stocky  at  Tilliedrum.  She's 
juist  seventeen  year  auld,  an'  the  auld 
fule  sits  wi'  his  airm  round  her  in 
Eppie's  hoose,  though  they've  been 
mairit  this  fortnicht. " 

"The  doited  fule,"  said  Jess. 

Jeames  Geogehan  and  his  bride  be- 
came the  talk  of  Thrums,  and  Jess  saw 


158        H  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

them  from  her  window  several  times. 
The  first  time  she  had  only  eyes  for 
the  jacket  with  fur  round  it  worn  by 
Mrs.  Geogehan,  but  subsequently  she 
took  in  Jeames. 

"He's  tryin'  to  carry "t  aff  wi'  his 
heid  in  the  air,"  she  said,  "but  I  can 
see  he's  fell  shamefaced,  an'  nae  won- 
der. Ay,  I'se  wad  he  s  mair  ashamed 
o't  in  his  heart  than  she  is.  It's  an 
awful  like  thing  o'  a  lassie  to  marry  an 
auld  man.  She  had  dune't  for  the 
siller.  Ay,  there's  pounds'  worth  o'  fur 
aboot  that  jacket." 

"They  say  she  had  siller  hersel'/' 
said  Tibbie  Birse. 

"  Dinna  tell  me,"  said  Jess.  "  I  ken 
by  her  wy  o'  carryin'  hersel'  'at  she 
never  had  a  jacket  like  that  afore." 

Eppie  was  not  the  only  person  in 
Thrums  whom  this  m.arriao;-e  enraged. 
Stories  had  long  been  alive  of  Jeames' 
fortune,    which    his    cousins'    children 


/IftaWtiQ  tbc  J6c6t  ot  "fft.       159 

were  some  day  to  divide  among  them- 
selves, and  as  a  consequence  these 
young  men  and  women  looked  on  ]\Irs. 
Geogehan  as  a  thief. 

"  Dinna  bring  the  wife  to  our  hoose, 
Jeames, "  one  of  them  told  him,  "for 
we  would  be  fair  ashamed  to  hae  her. 
We  used  to  hae  a  respect  for  yer  name, 
so  we  couldna  look  her  i'  the  face." 

**  She's  mair  like  yer  dochter  than 
yer  wife, "  said  another. 

* '  Na, "  said  a  third,  ' '  naebody  could 
mistak  her  for  your  dochter.  She's 
ower  young-like  for  that." 

"Wi'  the  siller  you'll  leave  her, 
Jeames,"  Tammas  Haggart  told  him, 
''she'll  get  a  younger  man  for  her  sec- 
ond venture. " 

All  this  was  very  trying  to  the  new- 
ly-marriea  man,  who  was  thirsting 
for  sympathy.  Hendry  was  the  per- 
son whom  he  took  into  his  confidence. 

"It  may  hae   been    foolish    at  my 


i6o       B  "CQinDow  in  ^brume, 

time  o'  life,"  Hendry  reported  him  to 
have  said,  ''but  I  couldna  help  it.  If 
they  juist  kent  her  better  they  couldna 
but  see  'at  she's  a  terrible  takkin'  crit- 
tur." 

Jeames  was  generous  ;  indeed,  he 
had  come  home  with  the  intention  of 
scattering  largess.  A  beggar  met  him 
one  day  on  the  brae,  and  got  a  shilling 
from  him.  She  was  waving  her  arms 
triumphantly  as  she  passed  Hendry's 
house,  and  Leeby  got  the  story  from 
her. 

"Eh,  he's  a  fine  man  that,  an'  a  saft 
ane, "  the  woman  said.  ' '  I  juist  speired 
at  'im  hoo  his  bonny  wife  was,  an'  he 
cot  wi'  a  shillin'  !  " 

Leeby  did  not  keep  this  news  to  her- 
self, and  soon  it  was  through  the  town. 
Jeames'  face  began  to  brighten. 

"They're  comin'  round  to  a  mair 
sensible  wy  o'  lookin'  at  things,"  he 
told  Hendry.      "I  was  walkin'  wi'  the 


/nbakins  tbe  JBest  ot  Ht,       i6i 

wife  i'  the  bury  in '-ground  yesterday^ 
an'  we  met  Kitty  McQueen.  She  was 
ane  o'  the  warst  agin  me  at  first, 
but  shetelt  me  i'  the  buryin'-ground  'at 
when  a  man  marrit  he  should  please 
'imsel'.     Oh,  they're  comin' round." 

What  Kitty  told  Jess  was  : 

"  I  minded  o'  the  tinkler  wuman  'at 
he  gae  a  shillin'  to,  so  I  thocht  I  would 
butter  up  at  the  auld  fule  too.  Weel, 
I  assure  ye,  I  had  nae  suner  said  'at 
he  was  rale  wise  to  marry  wha  he  likit 
than  he  slips  a  pound  note  into  my 
hand.  Ou,  Jess,  we've  ta'en  the  wrang 
wy  wi'  Jeames.  I've  telt  a'  my  bairns 
'at  if  they  meet  him  they're  to  praise 
the  wife  terrible,  an'  I'm  far  mista'en  if 
that  doesna  mean  five  shillin's  to  ilka 
aneo'  them." 

Jean  Whamond  got  a  pound  note  for 
saying  that  Jeames'  wife  had  an  un- 
common pretty  voice,  and  Davit  Lunan 
had  ten  shillings  for  a  judicious  word 
II 


1 62        B  liminDow  in  Ebrume. 

about  her  attractive  manners.  Tibbie 
Birse  invited  the  newly-married  couple 
to  tea  (one  pound). 

"  They're  takkin'  to  her,  they're  tak- 
kin'  to  her,"  Jeames  said,  gleefully. 
"I  kent  they  would  come  round  in 
time.  Ay,  even  my  mother,  'at  was 
sae  mad  at  first,  sits  for  hours  noo 
aside  her,  haudin'  her  hand.  They're 
juist  inseparable." 

The  time  came  when  we  had  INIr. 
and  Mrs.  Geogehan  and  Eppie  to  tea.. 

"It's  true  enough,"  Leeby  ran  ben 
to  tell  Jess,  "'at  Eppie  an'  the  wife's 
fond  o'  ane  another.  I  wouldna  hae 
believed  it  o'  Eppie  if  I  hadna  seen  it, 
but  I  assure  ye  they  sat  even  at  the 
tea-table  haudin'  ane  another's  hands. 
I  waurant  they're  doin't  this  meen- 
ute." 

"I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath,"  re- 
torted Jess.  "  Na,  na,  dinna  tell  me 
Eppies   fond   o'   her.     Tell   Eppie   to 


/IRaklnfl  tbc  JBcst  ot  1ft.       163 

come  but  to  the  kitchen  when  the  tea's 
ower. " 

Jess  and  Eppie  had  half  an  hour's 
conversation  alone,  and  then  our 
guests  left. 

''It's  a  riclit  guid  thini^/'  said  Hen- 
dry, '*'at  Eppie  has  ta'en  sic  a  notion 
o'  the  wife." 

' '  Ou,  ay,  ■'  said  Jess. 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  out  of  the 
house. 

"What  said  Eppie  to  ye  .^  "  Leeby 
asked  her  mother. 

"Juist  what  I  expeckit,"'  Jess  an- 
swered. "  Ye  see,  she's  dependent  on 
Jeames,  so  she  has  to  butter  up  at 
him." 

"  Did  she  say  onything  aboot  haudin' 
the  wife's  hand  sae  fond-like  ?  " 

"Ay,  she  said  it  was  an  awfu'  trial 
to  her,  an'  'at  it  sickened  her  to  see 
Jeames  an'  the  wife  baith  believin'  "at 
she  likit  to  do't." 


1 64        21  liminDow  in  ^brunts. 
CHAPTER  XIV. 

VISITORS    AT    THE    MANSE. 

On  brino-ins:  home  his  bride,  the 
minister  showed  her  to  us,  and  we 
thought  she. would  do  when  she  real- 
ized that  she  was  not  the  minister. 
She  was  a  grand  lady  from  Edinburgh, 
though  very  frank,  and  we  simple  folk 
amused  her  a  good  deal,  especially 
when  we  were  sitting  cowed  in  the 
manse  parlor  drinking  a  dish  of  tea 
with  her,  as  happened  to  Leeby,  her 
father,  and  me,  three  days  before 
Jamie  came  home. 

Leeby  had  refused  to  be  drawn  into 
conversation,  like  one  who  knew  her 
place,  yet  all  her  actions  were  genteel 
and   her  monosyllabic   replies   in  the 


IDiaitors  at  tbe  /Bbanse.        165 

Englishy  tongue,  as  of  one  who  was, 
after  all,  a  little  above  the  common. 
When  the  minister's  wife  asked  her 
whether  she  took  sugar  and  cream,  she 
said  politely,  '*  If  you  please  "  (though 
she  did  not  take  sugar),  a  reply  that 
contrasted  with  Hendry's  equally  well- 
intended  answer  to  the  same  question. 
"I'm  no  partikler,"  was  what  Hendry 
said. 

Hendry  had  left  home  glumly,  de- 
claring that  the  white  collar  Jess  had 
put  on  him  would  throttle  him ;  but 
her  feikieness  ended  in  his  surrender, 
and  he  was  looking  unusually  perjink. 
Had  not  his  daughter  been  present  he 
would  have  been  the  most  at  ease  of 
the  company,  but  her  manners  were 
too  fine  not  to  make  an  impression 
upon  one  who  knew  her  on  her  every- 
day behavior,  and  she  had  also  ways 
of  bringing  Hendry  to  himself  by  a 
touch   beneath   the  table.     It  was  in 


i66       B  *Mm&ow  in  tTbrums, 

church  that  Leeby  brought  to  perfec- 
tion her  manner  of  looking  after  her 
father.  When  he  had  confidence  in 
the  preacher's  soundness,  he  would 
sometimes  have  slept  in  his  pew  if 
Leeby  had  not  had  a  watchful  foot. 
She  wakened  him  in  an  instant,  while 
still  looking  modestly  at  the  pulpit ; 
however  reverently  he  might  try  to 
fall  over,  Leeby's  foot  went  out.  She 
was  such  an  artist  that  I  never  caught 
her  in  the  act.  All  I  knew  for  certain 
was  that,  now  and  then,  Hendry  sud- 
denly sat  up. 

The  ordeal  was  over  when  Leeby 
w^ent  upstairs  to  put  on  her  things. 
After  tea  Hendry  had  become  bolder 
in  talk,  his  subject  being  ministerial. 
He  had  an  extraordinary  knowledge, 
got  no  one  knew  where,  of  the  matri- 
monial affairs  of  all  the  ministers  of 
these  parts,  and  his  stories  about  them 
ended  frequently  with  a  chuckle.      He 


Disitors  at  tbc  /IRansc.         167 

always  took  it  for  granted  that  a 
minister's  marriage  was  womanhoods 
great  triumph,  and  that  the  particuhir 
woman  who  got  him  must  be  very- 
clever.  Some  of  his  tales  were  even 
more  curious  than  he  thought  them, 
such  as  the  one  Leeby  tried  to  inter- 
rupt by  saying  we  must  be  going. 

"There's  ]\Ir.  Pennycuick,  noo, " 
said  Hendry,  shaking  his  head  in 
wonder  at  what  he  had  to  tell  ; 
"him  'at's  minister  at  Tilliedrum. 
Weel,  when  he  was  a  probationer  he 
was  michty  poor,  an'  ane  day  he 
was  walkin'  into  Thrums  frae  Glen 
Quharity,  an'  he  taks  a  rest  at  a  little 
housey  on  the  road.  The  fowk  didna 
ken  him  ava,  but  they  saw  he  was  a 
minister,  an'  the  lassie  was  sorry  to 
see  him  wi'  sic  an  auld  hat.  What 
think  ye  she  did  ?  " 

"Come  away,  father,"  said  Leeby, 
re-entering  the  parlor ;  but  Hendry 
was  now  in  full  pursuit  of  his  story. 


i68        B  WinOow  In  ITbrums. 

'Til  tell  ye  what  she  did,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Shejuist  took  his  hat  awa, 
an'  put  her  father's  new  ane  in  its  place, 
an'  Mr.  Pennycuick  never  kent  the 
differ  till  he  landed  in  Thrums.  It 
was  terrible  kind  o'  her.  Ay,  but  the 
auld  man  would  be  in  a  michty  rage 
when  he  found  she  had  swappit  the 
hats." 

"Come  away,"  said  Leeby,  still 
politely,  though  she  was  burning  to 
tell  her  mother  how  Hendry  had  dis- 
graced them. 

"The  minister,"  said  Hendry,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  Leeby,  "  didna  forget 
the  lassie.  Na,  as  sune  as  he  got  a 
kirk,  he  married  her.  Ay,  she  got  her 
reward.  He  married  her.  It  was 
rale  noble  of 'im." 

I  do  not  know  what  Leeby  said  to 
Hendry  when  she  got  him  beyond  the 
manse  gate,  for  I  stayed  behind  to  talk 
to  the  minister.     As  it  turned  out,  the 


IDleftors  at  tbe  /iRanse.        169 

minister's  wife  did  most  of  the  talking, 
smiling  good-humoredly  at  country 
gawkiness  the  while. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  I 
shall  like  Thrums,  though  those  teas 
to  the  congregation  are  a  little  trying. 
Do  you  know.  Thrums  is  the  only 
place  I  was  ever  in  where  it  struck 
me  that  the  men  are  cleverer  than  the 
women." 

She  told  us  why. 

"Well,  to-night  affords  a  case  in 
point.  Mr.  McQumpha  was  quite 
brilliant,  was  he  not,  in  comparison 
with  his  daughter  ?  Really,  she  seemed 
so  put  out  at  being  at  the  manse  that 
she  could  not  raise  her  eyes.  I  ques- 
tion if  she  would  know  me  again,  and 
I  am  sure  she  sat  in  the  room  as  one 
blindfolded.  I  left  her  in  the  bedroom 
a  minute,  and  I  assure  you,  when  I 
returned  she  was  still  standing  on  the 
same  spot  in  the  center  of  the  floor." 


lyo        B  liQinDow  in  ^brumg» 

I  pointed  out  that  Leeby  had  been 
awestruck. 

"  I  suppose  so, ''  she  said;  "but  it 
is  a  pity  she  cannot  make  use  of  her 
eyes,  if  not  of  her  tongue.  Ah,  the 
Thrums  women  are  good,  I  beHeve, 
but  their  wits  are  sadly  in  need  of 
sharpening.  I  dare  say  it  comes  of 
living  in  so  small  a  place." 

I  overtook  Leeby  on  the  brae,  aware, 
as  I  saw  her  alone,  that  it  had  been 
her  father  whom  I  passed  talking  to 
Tammas  Haggart  in  the  square.  Hen- 
dry stopped  to  have  what  he  called  a 
tove  with  any  likely  person  he  encoun- 
tered, and,  indeed,  though  he  and  I 
often  took  a  walk  on  Saturdays,  I  gener- 
ally lost  him  before  we  were  clear  of 
the  town. 

In  a  few  moments  Leeby  and  I  were 
at  home  to  give  Jess  the  news. 

"  Whaur's  yer  father.?  "  asked  Jess, 
as  if  Hendry's  way  of  dropping  behind 
was  still  unknown  to  her. 


IDisitore  at  tbc  /llbansc.         171 

"  Ou,  I  left  him  speakin' to  Gavin 
Birse,  "  said  Leeby.  "  1  daur  say  he's 
awa  to  some  hoose. " 

"  It's  no  very  silvendy(safe)  his  com- 
in'  ower  the  brae  by  himsel', ''  said  Jess, 
adding  in  a  bitter  tone  of  conviction, 
"but  he'll  gang  in  to  no  hoose  as  lang 
as  he's  so  weel  dressed.  Na,  he  would 
think  it  boastfu'." 

I  sat  down  to  a  book  by  the  kitchen 
fire  ;  but,  as  Leeby  became  communi- 
cative, I  read  less  and  less.  While  she 
spoke  she  was  baking  bannocks  with 
all  the  might  of  her,  and  Jess,  leaning 
forward  in  her  chair,  was  arranging 
them  in  a  semicircle  round  the  fire. 

"Na,"  was  the  first  remark  of 
Leeby 's  that  came  between  me  and 
my  book,   "  it  is  no  new  furniture." 

' '  But  there  was  three  cart-loads  o't, 
Leeby,  sent  on  frae  Edinbory.  Tibbie 
Birse  helpit  to  lift  it  in,  and  she  said 
the  parlor  furniture  beat  a'. " 


172        B  TldinDow  in  ^brums. 

"  Ou,  it's  substantial,  but  it  is  no  new. 
I  sepad  it  had  been  bocht  cheap  second- 
hand, for  the  chair  I  had  was  terrible 
scratched  like,  an'  what's  mair,  the 
airm-chair  was  a  heap  shinier  than 
the  rest." 

''Ay,  ay,  I  wager  it  had  been  new 
stuffed.  Tibbie  said  the  carpet  cowed 
for  grandeur." 

"  Oh,  I  didna  deny  it's  a  guid  car- 
pet ;  but  if  it's  been  turned  once  it's 
been  turned  half  a  dozen  times,  so  it's 
far  frae  new.  Ay,  an'  forby,  it  was 
rale  threadbare  aneath  the  table,  so  ye 
may  be  sure  they've  been  cuttin't  an' 
puttin'  the  worn  pairt  whaur  it  would 
be  least  seen." 

''They  say  'at  there's  twa  grand  gas 
brackets  i'  the  parlor,  an'  a  wonderfu' 
gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'-room. " 

"We  wasna  i'  the  dinin'-room,  so  I 
ken  naething  aboot  the  gasoliery  ;  but 
I'll  tell  ye  what  the  gas  brackets  is.      I 


IDlaftors  at  tbe  /iRansc.        173 

recognized  them  inimeditly.  Ye  mind 
the  auld  gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'-room 
had  twa  lichts  ?  Ay,  then,  the  parlor 
brackets  is  made  oot  o'  the  auld  gaso- 
liery. '*' 

"  Weel,  Leeby,  as  sure  as  ye're  stand- 
in'  there,  that  passed  through  my  head 
as  sune  as  Tibbie  mentioned  them  !  " 

"  There  s  nae  doot  about  it.  Ay,  I 
was  in  ane  o'  the  bedrooms,  too  !  " 

' '  It  would  be  grand  ? '' 

"  I  wouldna  say  'at  it  was  partikler 
grand,  but  there  was  a  great  mask 
(quantity)  o'  things  in't,  an'  near  every- 
thing was  covered  wi'  cretonne.  But 
the  chairs  dinna  match.  There  was  a 
very  bonny-painted  cloth  alang  the 
chimley — what  they  call  a  mantelpiece 
border,  I  warrant." 

*'  Sal,  I've  often  wondered  what  they 
was. " 

"  Weel,  I  assure  ye  they  winna  be  ill 
to  mak,  for  the  border  was  juist  nailed 


174       21  'MinOow  in  ^brums. 

upon  a  board  laid  on  the  chimley. 
There's  naething  to  hender's  makkin' 
ane  for  the  room." 

''Ay,  we  could  sew  something  on 
the  border  instead  o'  paintin'  't.  The 
room  lookit  weel,  ye  say?  " 

''Yes,  but  it  was  economically  fur- 
nished. There  was  nae  carpet  below 
the  wax-cloth  ;  na,  there  was  nane  be- 
low the  bed  either. " 

"  Was't  a  grand  bed.''  " 

"It  had  a  fell  lot  o'  brass  aboot  it, 
but  there  was  juist  one  pair  o'  blankets. 
I  thocht  it  was  gey  shabby,  ha'en  the 
ewer  a  different  pattern  frae  the  basin  ; 
ay,  an"  there  was  juist  a  poker  in  the 
fireplace — there  was  nae  tangs.*' 

"Yea,  yea;  they'll  hae  but  one  set 
o'  bedroom  fire-irons.  The  tangs'll  be 
in  anither  room.  Tod,  thafs  no  sae 
michty  grand  for  Edinbory.  ^Vhat  like 
was  she  hersel'  ?  " 

"  Ou,  very  ladylike  and  saft-spoken. 


IDleitors  at  tbe  /Hbansc.         175 

She's  a  canty  body  an'  frank.  She 
wears  her  hair  low  on  the  left  side  to 
hod  (hide)  a  scar,  an'  there's  twa  warts 
on  her  richt  hand." 

"There  had  na  been  a  fire  i' the 
parlor  ? " 

"No,  but  it  was  ready  to  licht. 
There  was  sticks  and  paper  in't.  The 
paper  was  oot  o'  a  dressmaker's  jour- 
nal. " 

"Ye  say  so.?  She'll  mak  her  ain 
frocks,  I  sepad." 

When  Hendry  entered  to  take  off 
his  collar  and  coat  before  sitting  down 
to  his  evening-  meal  of  hot  water, 
porter,  and  bread  mixed  in  a  bowl, 
Jess  sent  me  off  to  the  attic.  As  I 
climbed  the  stairs  I  remembered  that 
the  minister's  wife  thought  Leeby  in 
need  of  sharpening. 


176       B  miuDow  in  Q;bcum6. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT    TO  MAG  LOWNIE. 

In  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in 
blobs  on  the  road  that  passed  our 
garden.  Then  it  crawled  into  the 
cart-tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked 
with  water.  Lastly,  the  water  gath- 
ered in  heavy  yellow  pools.  If  the 
on-ding  still  continued,  clods  of  earth 
toppled  from  the  garden  dyke  into  the 
ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  when  even  the  dulse- 
man  had  gone  into  shelter,  and  the 
woman  scudded  by  with  their  wrappers 
over  their  heads,  came  Gavin  Birse  to 
our  door.  Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen 
Quharity  post,  was  still  young,  but 
had  never  been   quite  the  same  man 


(3arin  JBirse  anO  /IBa0  Xownie.    177 

since  some  amateurs  in  the  glen  ironed 
his  back  for  rheumatism.  I  thought 
he  had  called  to  have  a  crack  with  me. 
He  sent  his  compliments  up  to  the 
attic,  however,  by  Leeby,  and  would 
I  come  and  be  a  witness  ? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He 
had  taken  off  his  scarf  and  thrust  it 
into  his  pocket,  lest  the  rain  should 
take  the  color  out  of  it.  His  boots 
cheeped,  and  his  shoulders  had  risen 
to  his  ears.  He  stood  steaming  before 
my  fire. 

"  If  it's  no  ower  muckle  to  ask  ye," 
he  said,  "I  would  like  ye  for  a  wit- 
ness." 

"A  witness  !  But  for  what  do  you 
need  a  witness,  Gavin  ?  " 

"  I  want  ye,"  he  said,  ''to  come  wi* 
me  to  Mag's,  and  be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Birse  had  been  en- 
gaged for  a  year  or  more.  Mag  was 
the  daughter  of  Janet  Ogilvy,  who  was 
12 


178        B  MinOow  in  ^brums. 

best  remembered  as  the  body  that  took 
the  hill  (that  is,  wandered  about  it) 
for  twelve  hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dish- 
art,  the  Auld  Licht  minister,  accepted 
a  call  to  another  church. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin," 
I  asked,  ' '  that  your  marriage  is  to  take 
place  to  day  ?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that 
he  was  only  deferring  a  smile. 

*'  Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

*' Ah,  then,  you  have  quarreled,  and 
I  am  to  speak  up  for  you  ? " 

"  Na,  na, "  he  said,  "I  dinna  want 
ye  to  do  that  above  all  things.  It 
would  be  a  favor  if  ye  could  gie  me 
a  bad  character. " 

This  beat  me,  and,  I  dare  say,  my 
face  showed  it. 

"I'm  no' juist  what  ye  would  call 
anxious  to  marry  Mag  noo,"  said 
Gavin,  without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 


(5avin  JBirsc  ant)  /Dbaa  Xownic.    179 

"There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigie- 
buckle,  "he  explained,  "  workin'  on  the 
farm — Jeanie  Luke  by  name.  Ye  may 
hae  seen  her  ?  " 

' '  What  of  her  ?  "  I  asked,  severely. 

'*  Weel,"  said  Gavin,  still  unabashed, 
"I'm  thinkin'  noo  'at  I  would  rather 
hae  her." 

Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 

"Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  on- 
common  till  I  saw  Jeanie,  an'  I  like  her 
fine  yet,  but  I  prefer  the  other  ane. 
That  state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on  for- 
ever, so  I  came  into  Thrums  the  day 
to  settle't  one  wy  or  another." 

"And  how,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  pro- 
pose going  about  it.?  It  is  a  some- 
what delicate  business." 

"  Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in't. 
I'll  speir  at  Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she'll  let 
me  aff.     Yes,  I'll  put  it  to  her  plain." 

"You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take 
you  ?  " 


i8o       H  *Mint)ow  in  ^brums. 

''Ay;  oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

**  But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bar- 
gain ?  " 

"  Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm 
done." 

"You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin  ?  " 

"Ye  may  say  that  ;  but  I  want  to 
be  married.  The  wifie  I  lodge  wi*  can- 
na  last  lang,  an'  I  would  like  to  settle 
doon  in  some  place." 

"  So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's 
now  ?  " 

' '  Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  twal' 
and  ane. " 

*'0h,  yes;  but  why  do  you  want 
me  to  go  with  you  ?  " 

"1  want  ye  for  a  witness.  If  she 
winna  let  me  aff,  weel  an'  guid  ;  an' 
if  she  will,  it's  better  to  hae  a  w^itness  in 
case  she  should  go  back  on  her  word." 

Gavin  made  his  proposal  briskly, 
and  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  only  asking 
me   to   go  fishing ;    but  I   did  not  ac- 


Gavin  J6irsc  and  /iRao  Xownie.    i8i 

company  him  to  ^la^'s.  He  left  the 
house  to  look  for  another  witness,  and 
about  an  hour  afterward  Jess  saw  him 
pass  with  Tammas  Haggart.  Tarn  mas 
cried  in  during  the  evening  to  tell  us 
how  the  mission  prospered. 

**Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of 
water  hanging  to  the  point  of  his  nose, 
*'I  disclaim  all  responsibility  in  the 
business.  I  ken  Mag  weel  for  a  thrifty, 
respectable  woman,  as  her  mither  was 
afore  her,  an'  so  I  said  to  Gavin  when 
he  came  to  speir  me."' 

'*Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has'Lisbeth  filled 
to  me,"  said  Hendry,  settling  down  to 
a  reminiscence. 

''No  to  be  ower  hard  on  Gavin," 
continued  Tammas,  forestalling  Hen- 
dry, **  he  took  what  I  said  in  guid 
part ;  but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin' 
to  draw  breath,  he  says,  '  The  question 
is,  will  ye  come  wi'  me  ? '  He  was 
michty  made  up  in  's  mind." 


i82        B  minDow  in  ^brums. 

"  Weel,  ye  went  \vi' him, "suggested 
Jess,  who  wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to 
the  point. 

"Ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  ''but 
no  in  sic  a  hurry  as  that. " 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and 
round,  to  clear  the  course  as  it  were 
for  a  sarcasm. 

"  Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued, 
"'at  "am  quick  beyond  the  ordinar'  in 
seeing'  the   humorous  side  o"  things. " 

Here  Tammas  paused  and  looked 
at  us. 

"  So  ye  are,  Tammas,"  said  Hendry, 
"Losh,  ye  mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  hu- 
morous side  o'  me  wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots 
'at  wisna  marrows  !  No,  the  ane  had 
a  toe-piece  on,  an'  the  other  hadna." 

"Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes 
when  ye  was  delvin',"  broke  in  Jess  ; 
"ye  have  as  guid  a  pair  o'  boots  as 
ony  in  Thrums." 

"Ay,   but   I  had  worn  them,"   said 


©apiu  J6irsc  anD  ffbng  Xownle.    185 

Hendry,  "at  odd  times  for  mair  than. 
a  year,  an'  I  had  never  seen  the  hu- 
morous side  o'  them.  Weel,  as  fac  as 
death  (here  he  addressed  me).  Tam- 
mas  had  juist  seen  them  twa  or  three 
times  when  he  saw  the  humorous  side 
o"  them.  Syne  I  saw  their  humorous 
side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed 
it  oot." 

' "  That  was  nacthing, "'  said  Tammas, 
"  naething  ava  to  some  things  I've 
done." 

'  *  But  what  aboot  j\Iag  ?  "  said  Leeby. 

"Wewasna  that  length,  was  we?" 
said  Tammas.  "  Na,  we  was  speakin' 
aboot  the  humorous  side.  Ay,  wait  a 
wee,  I  didna  mention  the  humorous 
side  for  naething. " 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brighten- 
ing up.  "I  was  sayin'  to  ye  hoo 
quick  I  was  to  see  the  humorous  side 
o'  onything.     Ay,  then,  what  made  me 


1 84       ^  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

say  that  was  'at  in  a  clink  (flash)  I  saw 
the  humorous  side  o'  Gavin's  position." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admir- 
ingly,  ' '  an'  what  is  't  ?  " 

"Oh,  it's  this:  there's  something- 
humorous  in  speirin'  a  woman  to  let 
ye  aff  so  as  ye  can  be  married  to  another 
woman. " 

"I  daur  say  there  is,"  said  Hendry, 
doubtfully. 

"Did  she  let  him  aff.?  "  asked  Jess, 
taking  the  words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"I'm  comin'  to  that,"  saidTammas. 
"Gavin  proposes  to  me  after  I  had 
ha'en  my  laugh " 

"Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the 
table  with  his  fist,  ' '  it  has  a  humorous 
side.     Ye're  richt  again,  Tammas." 

"I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  (beat)  the 
table,"  said  Jess,  and  then  Tammas 
proceeded  : 

"Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak  paper  an' 
ink  an'  a  pen  wi'  me,  to  write  the  pro- 


(Bavin  Sirse  anD  /Ibag  Xownfe.    185 

ceedin's  doon,  but  I  said,  'Na,  na,  I'll 
tak  paper,  but  nae  ink  nor  nae  pen, 
for  there'll  be  ink  an'  a  pen  there.' 
That  was  what  I  said. " 

"An'  did  she  let  him  aff?"  asked 
Leeby. 

' '  Weel, "  said  Tammas,  "aff  we  goes 
to  IVIag's  hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag 
was  in.  She  was  alane,  too  ;  so  Gavin, 
no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat  doon  for 
politeness'  sake,  an'  sune  rises  up 
again  ;  an'  says  he,  '  Marget  Lownie,  I 
hae  a  solemn  question  to  speir  at  ye, 
namely  this,  will  you,  Marget  Lownie, 
let  me,  Gavin  Birse,  aff .? ' " 

"Mag  would  start  at  that  ?  " 

"Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I 
thocht  she  maun  hae  got  wind  o'  his 
intentions  aforehand,  for  she  juist  re- 
plies, quiet-like,  '  Hoo  do  ye  want  aff, 
Gavin } ' 

"  'Because,'  says  he,  like  a  book, 
'my  affections  has  undergone  a  change.' 


1 86       B  MinDow  In  G:brum6. 

"  *Ye  mean  Jean  Luke/ says  Mag. 

"  '  That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin, 
very  straitforrard. " 

''But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did 
she  ? " 

"Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says 
she,  '  I  wonder  to  hear  ye,  Gavin,  but 
'am  no  goin'  to  agree  to  naething  o' 
that  sort/ 

"  'Think  it  ower, '  says  Gavin. 

"  '  Na,  my  mind's  made  up/  said 
she. 

"  '  Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,* 
he  says,  earnestly. 

"  '  Hoo  do  I  ken  that  .'* '  she  speirs, 
rale  sensibly,  I  thocht,  for  men's  no 
sae  easy  to  get. 

"  'Am  sure  o'  't,'  Gavin  says,  wi* 
michty  conviction  in  his  voice,  '  for 
^  ye're  bonny  to  look  at,  an'  weel  kent 
for  bein'  a  guid  body. ' 

"  'Ay,'  says  Mag,  ' I'm  glad  ye  like 
me,  Gavin,  for  ye  have  to  tak  me/  " 


0apin  36\X6C  an^  /Iftag  Xownic.    187 

"That  put  a  clincher  on  him,"  inter- 
rupted Hendry. 

"He  was  loth  to  gie  in,"  replied 
Tammas,  so  he  says,  '  Ye  think  'am  a 
fine  character,  IMarget  Lownie,  but 
yc're  very  far  mista'en.  I  wouldna 
wonder  but  what  I  was  lossin'  my 
place  some  o'  thae  days,  an'  syne 
whaur  would  ye  be  ? — IMarget  Lownie,  * 
he  goes  on,  'am  nat'rally  lazy  an'  fond 
o'  the  drink.  As  sure  as  ye  stand  there, 
'am  a  reg'lar  deevil !  '  " 

"That  was  strong  language, "  said 
Hendry,  but  he  would  be  wantin'  to 
fleg  (frighten)  her  ? '' 

"Juistso,  but  he  didna  manage  *t, 
for  Mag  says  :  *  We  a'  hae  oor  faults, 
Gavin,  an'  deevil  or  no  deevil,  ye're 
the  man  for  me  !  " 

"Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued 
Tammas,  "an'  syne  he  tries  her  on  a 
new  tack.  '  ^Nlarget  Lownie,'  he  says, 
*  ye're  father's  an  auld  man  noo,  an'  he 


i88        B  WinDow  in  G:brums. 

has  naebody  but  yersel'  to  look  after 
him.  I'm  thinkin'  it  would  be  kind  o' 
cruel  o'  me  to  tak  ye  awa  frae  him  ? '  " 

"  Mag  wouldna  be  ta'en  in  wi'  that ; 
she  wasna  born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said 
Jess,  using  one  of  her  favorite  saymgs. 

"She  wasna,"  answered  Tammas. 
"Says  she,  '  Hae  nae  fear  on  that 
score,  Gavin  ;  my  father's  fine  willin' 
to  spare  me  !  '  " 

"An'  that  ended  it?" 

"Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"Did  ye  tak  it  doon  in  writin' .? " 
asked  Hendry. 

"There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tam- 
mas, handing  round  his  snuff-mull. 
"No,  I  never  touched  paper.  When 
I  saw  the  thing  was  settled,  I  left  them 
to  their  coortin'.  They're  to  tak  a  look 
at  Snecky  Hobart's  auld  hoose  the 
nicht     It's  to  let." 


Zbc  Son  from  XonDon.        189 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  SON  FROM  LONDON. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  there  used 
to  come  to  Thrums  a  painter  from 
nature,  whom  Hendry  spoke  of  as  the 
drawer.  He  lodged  with  Jess  in  my 
attic,  and  when  the  weavers  met  him 
they  said,  ''Weel,  drawer,"  and  then 
passed  on,  grinning.  Tammas  Hag- 
gart  was  the  first  to  say  this. 

The  drawer  was  held  a  poor  man 
because  he  straggled  about  the  coun- 
try looking  for  subjects  for  his  draws  ; 
and  Jess,  as  was  her  way,  gave  him 
many  comforts  for  which  she  would 
not  charge.  That,  I  dare  say,  was  why 
he  painted  for  her  a  little  portrait  of 
Jamie.     When  the  drawer  came  back 


190        U  lldinOow  in  ^brums. 

to  Thrums  he  always  found  the  paint- 
ing in  a  frame  in  the  room.  Here  I 
must  make  a  confession  about  Jess. 
She  did  not  in  her  secret  mind  think 
the  portrait  quite  the  thing,  and  as  soon 
as  the  drawer  departed  it  was  removed 
from  the  frame  to  make  way  for  a  cal- 
endar. The  deception  was  very  inno- 
cent, Jess  being  anxious  not  to  hurt 
the  donors  feelings. 

To  those  who  have  the  artists  eye, 
the  picture,  which  hangs  in  my  school- 
house  now,  does  not  show  a  hand- 
some lad,  Jamie  being  short  and  dap- 
per, w^th  straw-colored  hair,  and  a 
chin  that  ran  away  into  his  neck. 
That  is  how  I  once  regarded  him,  but 
I  have  little  heart  for  criticism  of  those 
I  like,  and,  despite  his  madness  for  a 
season,  of  which,  alas  !  I  shall  have  to 
tell,  lam  always  Jamie's  friend.  Even 
to  hear  any  one  disparaging  the  ap- 
pearance of  Jess'  son  is  to  me  a  pain. 


^be  Son  from  XonDon.         191 

All  Jess"  acquaintances  knew  that  in 
the  beginning  of  every  month  a  regis- 
tered letter  reached  her  from  London, 
To  her  it  was  not  a  matter  to  keep 
secret.  She  was  proud  that  the  help 
she  and  Hendry  needed  in  the  gloam- 
ing of  their  lives  should  come  from  her 
beloved  son,  and  the  neighbors  es- 
teemed Jamie  because  he  was  good 
to  his  mother.  Jess  had  more  humor 
than  any  other  woman  I  have  known, 
while  Leeby  w^as  but  sparingly  en- 
dowed ;  yet,  as  the  month  neared  its 
close,  it  was  the  daughter  who  put  on 
the  humorist,  Jess  thinking  money  too 
serious  a  thing  to  jest  about.  Then  if 
Leeby  had  a  moment  for  gossip,  as 
when  ironing  a  dickey  for  Hendry, 
and  the  iron  was  a  trifle  too  hot,  she 
would  look  archly  at  me  before  address- 
ing her  mother  in  these  words  : 
"  Will  he  send,  think  ye  ?  " 
Jess,  who  had  a  conviction   that  he 


192        B  TlxainDow  in  ^Drums. 

would  send,  affected  surprise  at  the 
question. 

"Will  Jamie  send  this  month,  do  ye 
mean  ?  Na,  oh,  losh  no  !  it's  no  to  be  ex- 
peckit.    Na,  he  couldna  do"t  this  time." 

' '  That's  what  ye  aye  say,  but  he  aye 
sends.  Yes,  an'  vara  weel  ye  ken  'at 
he  will  send." 

''Na,  na,  Leeby  ;  dinna  let  me  ever 
think  o'  sic  a  thing  this  month." 

"As  if  ye  wasna  thinkin'  o't  day  an' 
nicht !  " 

"He's  terrible  mindfu',  Leeby,  but 
he  doesna  hae't.  Na,  no  this  month  ; 
mebbe  next  month." 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  mother, 
'at  ye'U  no  be  up  oot  o'  yer  bed  on  Mon- 
unday  an  hour  afore  yer  usual  time, 
lookin'  for  the  post .?  " 

"Na,  no  this  time.  I  may  be  up, 
an'  tak  a  look  for  'im,  but  no  expeckin' 
a  registerdy  ;  na  na,  that  wouldna  be 
reasonable." 


Cbe  Son  trom  XonOon.        193 

"  Reasonable  here,  reasonable  there, 
up  you'll  be,  keckin*  (peering)  through 
the  blind  to  see  if  the  post's  comin',  ay, 
an'  what's  mair,  the  post  will  come, 
and  a  registerdy  in  his  hand  wi'  fifteen 
shillings  in't  at  the  least." 

*' Dinna  say  fifteen,  Lceby  ;  I  would 
never  think  o'  sic  a  sum.  Mebbe 
tivc " 

*'  Five  !  I  wonder  to  hear  ye.  Vara 
weel  you  ken '  at  since  he  had  twenty- 
twa  shillin's  in  the  ^eek  he's  never 
sent  less  than  half  a  sovereign." 

"No,  but  we  canna  expcck " 

"  Expeck  I  Xo,  but  it's  no  cxpeck — 
it's  get. " 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  I 
came  downstairs,  Jess  was  in  her 
chair  by  the  window,  beaming,  apiece 
of  paper  ni  her  hand.  I  did  not  require 
to  be  told  about  it,  but  I  was  told.  Jess 
had  been  up  before  Leeby  could  get 
the  fire  lit.  with  great  difliculty  reach- 
es 


194       ^  "QClinDow  in  ^brums. 

ing  the  window  in  her  bare  feet,  and 
many  a  time  had  she  said  that  the  post 
must  be  by. 

"  Havers,"  said  Leeby,  "he  winna 
be  for  an  hour  yet.  Come  awa'  back 
to  your  bed." 

"Na,  he  maun  be  by/' Jess  would 
say  in  a  few  minutes  ;  "ou,  we  couldna 
expeck  this  month." 

So  it  went  on  until  Jess'  hand  shook 
the  blind. 

"  He's  comin',  Leeby,  he's  comin'. 
He'll  no  hae  naething,  na,  I  couldna 
expeck He's  by  !  " 

"I  dinna  believe  it,"  cried  Leeby, 
running  to  the  window,  "  he's  juist  at 
his  tricks  again." 

This  was  in  reference  to  a  way  our 
saturnine  post  had  of  pretending  that 
he  brought  no  letters  and  passing  the 
door.  Then  he  turned  back.  '']Mis- 
tress  McQumpha,"  he  cried,  and  whis- 
tled. 


Zbc  Son  trom  ILon^on. 


195 


"Run,  Leeby,  run/'  said  Jess  ex- 
citedly. 

Leeby  hastened  to  the  door,  and 
came  back  witli  a  reg-istcred  letter. 

"  Registerdy/'she  cried  in  tri-:mph, 
and  Jess,  with  fond  hands,  opened  the 
letter.  By  the  time  I  came  down  the 
money  was  hid  away  in  a  box  beneath 
the  bed,  where  not  even  Leeby  could 
find  it,  and  Jess  was  on  her  chair  hug- 
ging the  letter.  She  preserved  all  her 
registered  envelopes. 

This  was  the  iirst  time  I  had  been  in 
Thrums  when  Jamie  was  expected  for 
his  ten  days*  holiday,  and  for  a  week 
we  discussed  little  else.  Though  he 
had  written  saying  when  he  would  sail 
for  Dundee,  there  was  quite  a  possi- 
bility of  his  appearing  on  the  brae  at 
any  moment,  for  he  liked  to  take  Jess 
and  Leeby  by  surprise.  Hendry  there 
was  no  surprising,  unless  he  was  in 
the  mood  for  it,  and   the   coolness  of 


him  was  one  of  Jess' grievances.  Just 
two  years  earlier  Jamie  came  north  a 
week  before  his  time,  and  his  father 
saw  him  from  the  window.  Instead  of 
crying  out  in  amazement  or  hacking 
his  face,  for  he  was  shaving  at  the  time, 
Hendry  cahiily  wiped  his  razor  on  the 
window-sill,  and  said  : 

"Ay,  there's  Jamie." 

Jamie  was  a  little  disappointed  at 
being  seen  in  this  way,  for  he  had 
been  looking  forward  for  four-and-forty 
hours  to  repeating  the  sensation  of 
the  year  before.  On  that  occasion  he 
had  got  to  the  door  unnoticed,  where 
he  stopped  to  listen.  I  dare  say  he 
checked  his  br  ath,  the  better  to  catch 
his  mother's  voice,  for  Jess  being  an 
invalid,  Jamie  thought  of  her  first.  He 
had  Leeby  sworn  to  write  the  truth 
about  her,  but  many  an  anxious  hour 
he  had  on  hearing  that  she  was  "  com- 
plaining fell  (considerably)  about  her 


^bc  Son  trom  XonDon.        197 

back  the  day,"  Leeby,  as  he  knew,  be- 
ing frightened  to  akirm  him.  Jamie, 
too,  had  given  his  promise  to  tell 
exactly  how  he  was  keeping,  but  often 
he  wrote  that  he  was  "fine "when 
Jess  had  her  doubts.  When  Hendry 
wrote  he  spread  himself  over  the  table, 
and  said  that  Jess  was  "juist  about 
it."  or  "  aff  and  on,"  which  does  not 
tell  much.  So  Jamie  hearkened  pain- 
fully at  the  door,  and  by  and  by  heard 
his  mother  say  to  Leeby  that  she  was 
sure  the  teapot  was  running  out.  Per- 
haps that  voice  was  as  sweet  to  him  as 
the  music  of  a  maiden  to  her  lover,  but 
Jamie  did  not  rush  into  his  mother's 
arms.  Jess  has  told  me  with  a  beam- 
ing face  how  craftily  he  behaved.  The 
old  man,  of  lungs  that  shook  Thrums 
by  night,  who  went  from  door  to  door 
selling  firewood,  had  a  way  of  shoving 
doors  rudely  open  and  crying  : 

*'  Ony  rozetty  roots  ?  "  and  him  Jamie 
imitated. 


198        B  MinOow  in  C^brums. 

"  Juist  think,  "'Jess  said  as  she  re- 
called the  incident,  "  what  a  startle  we 
got.  As  we  think,  Pete  kicks  open 
the  door  and  cries  oot  :  '  Ony  rozetty 
roots?'  and  Leeby  says  'No,'  and 
gangs  to  shut  the  door.  Next  minute 
she  screeches,  '  What,  what,  what  !  ' 
and  in  walks  Jamie  !  " 

Jess  was  never  able  to  decide  whether 
it  w^as  more  delightful  to  be  taken  aback 
in  this  way  or  to  prepare  for  Jamie. 
Sudden  excitement  was  bad  for  her  ac- 
cording to  Hendry,  who  got  his  medical 
knowledge  second-hand  from  persons 
under  treatment,  but  with  Jamie's  ap- 
pearance on  the  threshold  Jess'  health 
began  to  improve.  This  time  he  kept 
to  the  appointed  day,  and  the  house 
was  turned  upside  down  in  his  honor. 
Such  a  polish  did  Leeby  put  on  the 
flagons  which  hung  on  the  kitchen- 
wall  that,  passing  between  them  and 
the  window,  I  thought  once  I  had  been 


Zbc  Son  from  Xon^on.         199 

struck  by  lightning.  On  the  morning 
of  the  day  that  was  to  bring  him,  Leeby 
was  up  at  two  o'clock,  and  eight  hours 
before  he  could  possibly  arrive  Jess 
had  a  night-shirt  warming  for  him  at 
the  fire.  I  was  no  longer  anybody, 
except  as  a  person  who  could  give 
Jamie  advice.  Jess  told  me  what  I 
was  to  say.  The  only  thing  he  and 
his  mother  quarreled  about  was  the 
underclothing  she  would  swaddle  him 
in,  and  Jess  asked  me  to  back  her  up 
in  her  entreaties. 

''There's  no  a  doubt,''  she  said, 
"but  what  it's  a  hantle  caulder  here 
than  in  London,  an'  it  would  be  a  terri- 
ble business  if  he  was  to  tak  the  cauld." 

Jamie  was  to  sail  from  London  to 
Dundee,  and  come  on  to  Thrums  from 
Tilliedrum  in  the  post-cart.  The  road 
at  that  time,  however,  avoided  the 
brae,  and  at  a  certain  point  Jamie's 
custom    was   to   alight,    and  take   the 


200       B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 

short  cut  home,  along  a  farm  road  and 
up  the  commonty.  Here,  too,  Hookey 
Crewe,  the  post,  deposited  his  pas- 
senger's box,  which  Hendry  wheeled 
home  in  a  barrow.  Long  before  the 
cart  had  lost  sight  of  Tilliedrum,  Jess 
was  at  her  window. 

''Tell  her  Hookey's  often  late  on 
Monundays,"  Leeby  whispered  to  me, 
''for  she'll  gang  oot  o'  her  mind  if  she 
thinks  there's  onything  wrang. " 

Soon  Jess  was  painfully  excited, 
though  she  sat  as  still  as  salt. 

"It  maun  be  yer  time,"  she  said, 
looking  at  both  Leeby  and  me,  for  in 
Thrums  we  went  oot  an'  met  our 
friends. 

"  Hoots,"  retorted  Leeby,  trying  to 
be  hardy,  "Hookey  canna  be  oot  o' 
Tilliedrum  yet." 

"He  maun  hae  startit  lang  syne." 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  mother,  puttin' 
yersel'  in  sic  a  state.  Ye'll  be  ill  when 
he  comes." 


Zbc  Son  from  XonDon.        201 

"  Na,  am  no  in  nae  state,  Leeby, 
but  there'll  no  be  nae  accident,  will 
there  ?  " 

'*  It's  most  provokin'  'at  ye  will  think 
'at  every  time  Jamie  steps  into  a  ma- 
chine there'll  bean  accident  Am  sure 
if  ye  would  tak  mair  after  my  father, 
it  would  be  a  blessin'.  Look  hoo  cool 
he  is." 

' '  VVhaur  is  he,  Leeby  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  dinna  ken.  The  henmost 
e  I  saw  him  he  was  layin'  doon  the 
law  aboot  something  to  T'nowhead. " 

' '  It's  an  awfu'  wy  that  he  has  o' 
gaen  oot  without  a  word.  I  wouldna 
wonder  'at  he's  no  bein'  in  time  to 
meet  Jamie,  an'  that  would  be  a  pretty 
business.*' 

"  Od,  ye're  sure  he'll  be  in  braw 
time. " 

"  But  he  hasna  ta'en  the  barrow  wi' 
him,  an'  hoo  is  Jamie's  luggage  to  be 
brocht  up  withoot  a  barrow  ? " 


202        B  Minnow  In  ^brums. 

"Barrow!  He  took  the  barrow  to 
the  saw-mill  an  hour  syne  to  pick  it  up 
at  Rob  Angus'  on  the  wy. '' 

Several  times  Jess  was  sure  she  saw 
the  cart  in  the  distance,  and  implored 
us  to  be  off. 

"I'll  tak  no  settle  till  ye're  awa," 
she  said,  her  face  now  flushed  and  her 
hands  working  nervously. 

"We've  time  to  gang  and  come 
twa  or  three  times  yet,"  remonstrated 
Leeby  ;  but  Jess  gave  me  so  beseech- 
ing a  look  that  I  put  on  my  hat.  Then 
Hendry  dandered  in  to  change  his  coat 
deliberately,  and  when  the  three  of  us 
set  off,  we  left  Jess  with  her  eye  on 
the  door  by  which  Jamie  must  enter. 
He  was  her  only  son  now,  and  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  year. 

On  the  way  down  the  commonty, 
Leeby  had  the  honor  of  being  twice 
addressed  as  Miss  McQumpha,  but  her 
father  was  Hendry  to  all,  which  shows 


(Tbc  Son  from  Xon&on.        203 

that  we  make  our  social  position  for 
ourselves.  Hendry  looked  forward  to 
Jamie's  annual  appearance  only  a  little 
less  hungrily  than  Jess,  but  his  pulse 
still  beat  regularly.  Leeby  would 
have  considered  it  almost  wicked  to 
talk  of  anything  except  Jamie  now, 
but  Hendry  cried  out  comments  on  the 
tatties,  yesterday  s  roup,  the  fall  in  jute, 
to  everybody  he  encountered.  When 
he  and  a  crony  had  their  say  and 
parted,  it  was  their  custom  to  continue 
the  conversation  in  shouts  until  they 
were  out  of  hearing. 

Only  to  Jess  at  her  window  was  the 
cart  late  that  afternoon.  Jamie  jumped 
from  it  in  the  long  great-coat  that  had 
been  new  to  Thrums  the  year  before, 
and  Hendry  said  calmly  : 

"Ay,  Jamie." 

Leeby  and  Jamie  made  signs,  that 
they  recognized  each  other  as  brother 
and  sister,  but  I  was  the  only  one  with 


204        21  MinDovv  in  ^brums. 

whom  he  shook  hands.  He  was 
smart  in  his  movements  and  quite  the 
gentleman,  but  the  Thrums  ways  took 
hold  of  him  again  at  once.  He  even 
inquired  for  his  mother  in  a  tone  that 
was  meant  to  deceive  me  into  thinking 
he  did  not  care  how  she  was. 

Hendry  would  have  had  a  talk  out 
of  him  on  the  spot,  but  was  reminded 
of  the  luggage.  We  took  the  heavy 
farm  road,  and  soon  we  were  at  the 
saw-mill.  I  am  naturally  leisurely, 
but  we  climbed  the  commonty  at  a 
stride.  Jamie  pretended  to  be  calm, 
but  in  a  dark  place  I  saw  him  take 
Leeby's  hand,  and  after  that  he  said 
not  a  word.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  elbow  of  the  brae,  where  he  would 
come  into  sight  of  his  mother's  window. 
Many,  many  a  time,  I  know,  that  lad 
had  prayed  to  God  for  still  another 
sight  of  the  window  with  his  mother  at 
it.     So  we  came  to  the  corner  where 


Xlbc  Son  trom  XonDon.        205 

the  stile  is  that  Sam'l  Dickie  jumped  in 
the  race  for  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  be- 
fore Jamie  was  the  house  of  his  child- 
hood and  his  mother's  window,  and 
the  fond,  anxious  face  of  his  mother 
herself.  i\Iy  eyes  are  dull,  and  I  did 
not  see  her,  but  suddenly  Jamie  cried 
out,  "My  mother  !  "'  and  Leeby  and  I 
were  left  behind.  When  I  reached  the 
kitchen  Jess  was  crying,  and  her  son's 
arms  were  round  her  neck.  I  went 
away  to  my  attic. 

There  was  only  one  other  memora- 
ble event  of  that  day.  Jamie  had 
finished  his  tea,  and  we  all  sat  round 
him,  listening  to  his  adventures  and 
opinions.  He  told  us  how  the  coun- 
try should  be  governed,  too,  and  per- 
haps put  on  airs  a  little.  Hendry 
asked  the  questions,  and  Jamie  an- 
swered them  as  pat  as  if  he  and  his 
father  were  going  through  the  Shorter 
Catechism.       When    Jamie    told    any- 


2o6       21  MmDovv  in  ^brums. 

thing  marvelous,  as  how  many  tow- 
els were  used  at  the  shop  in  a  day,  or 
that  twopence  was  the  charge  for  a 
single  shave,  his  father  screwed  his 
mouth  together  as  if  preparing  to 
whistle,  and  then  instead  made  a  curi- 
ous clucking  noise  with  his  tongue, 
which  was  reserved  for  the  expression 
of  absolute  amazement.  As  for  Jess, 
who  was  given  to  making  much  of  me, 
she  ignored  my  remarks  and  laughed 
hilariously  at  jokes  of  Jamie's  which 
had  been  received  in  silence  from  me  a 
few  minutes  before. 

Slowly  it  came  to  me  that  Leeby 
had  something  on  her  mind,  and  that 
Jamie  was  talking  to  her  with  his  eyes. 
I  learned  afterwards  that  they  were  plot- 
ting how  to  get  me  out  of  the  kitchen, 
but  were  too  impatient  to  wait.  Thus 
it  was  that  the  great  event  happened 
in  my  presence.  Jamie  rose  and  stood 
near  Jess  ;    I  daresay  he  had  planned 


XLbc  Son  from  XonDon.        207 

the  scene  frequently.  Then  he  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket  a  purse,  and 
coolly  opened  it.  Silence  fell  upon  us 
as  we  saw  that  purse.  From  it  he  took 
a  neatly  folded  piece  of  paper,  crumpled 
it  into  a  ball,  and  flung-  it  into  Jess' 
lap. 

I  cannot  say  whether  Jess  knew 
what  it  was.  Her  hands  shook,  and 
for  a  moment  she  let  the  ball  of  paper 
lie  there. 

"  Open't  up,"  cried  Leeby,  who  was 
in  the  secret. 

"  What  is't  ?  "  asked  Hendry,  draw- 
ing nearer. 

"It's  juist  a  bit  paper  Jamie  flung  at 
me,"  said  Jess,  and  then  she  unfolded 
it. 

"It's  a  five-pound  note!"  cried 
Hendry. 

"Na,  na ;  oh,  keep  us,  no,"  said 
Jess  ;  but  she  knew  it  was. 

For  a  time  she  could  not  speak. 


2o8        B  *^inC>ow  in  ^brums. 

"I  canna  take  it,  Jamie,"  she  fal- 
tered at  last. 

But  Jamie  waved  his  hand,  meaning 
that  it  was  nothing  ;  and  then,  lest  he 
should  burst,  hurried  out  into  the  gar- 
den, where  he  walked  up  and  down 
whistling.  May  God  bless  the  lad, 
thought  I.  I  do  not  know  the  history 
of  that  five-pound  note,  but  well  aware 
I  am  that  it  grew  slowly  out  of  pence 
and  silver,  and  that  Jamie  denied  his 
passions  many  things  for  this  great 
hour.  His  sacrifices  watered  his  young 
heart  and  kept  it  fresh  and  tender. 
Let  us  no  longer  cheat  our  consciences 
by  talking  of  filthy  lucre.  Money  may 
always  be  a  beautiful  thing.  It  is  we 
who  make  it  grimy. 


21  Ijomc  for  ©cnluses.        209 
CHAPTER  XVII. 

A     HOME     FOR     GENIUSES. 

From  hints  he  had  let  drop  at  odd 
times  I  knew  that  Tammas  Haggart 
had  a  scheme  for  geniuses,  but  not 
until  the  evening  after  Jamie's  arrival 
did  I  get  it  out  of  him.  Hendry  was 
with  Jamie  at  the  fishing,  and  it  came 
about  that  Tammas  and  I  had  the  pig- 
sty to  ourselves. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  when  we  had 
got  a  grip  of  the  subject,  '  I  dount 
pretend  as  my  ideas  is  to  be  followed 
withoot  deeviation,  but  ondootedly 
something  sh  uld  be  done  for  gen- 
iuses, them  bein'  aboot  the  only  class 
as  we  do  naething  for.  Yet  they're 
fowk  to  be  prood  o'  an'  we  shouldna 
14 


2IO       B  MlnDow  in  G:brums. 

let  them  overdo  the  thing,  nor  run 
into  debt ;  na,  na.  There  was  Rob- 
bie Burns,  noo,  as  real  a  genius  as 
ever " 

At  the  pig-sty,  where  we  Hked  to 
have  more  than  one  topic,  we  had  fre- 
quently to  tempt  Tammas  away  from 
Burns, 

"Your  scheme,"  I  interposed,  "is 
for  living  geniuses,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  ''  them 
'at's  gone  canna  be  brocht  back. 
Weel,  my  idea  is  'at  a  Home  should 
be  built  for  geniuses  at  the  public  ex- 
pense, whaur  they  could  all  live  the- 
gither,  an'  be  decently  looked  after. 
Na,  no  in  London  ;  that's  no  my  plan, 
but  I  would  hae't  within  an  hour's 
distance  o'  London,  say  five  mile  frae 
the  market-place,  an'  standin'  in  a  bit 
garden,  whaur  the  geniuses  could  walk 
aboot  arm-in-arm,  composin'  their 
minds. " 


H  Ibomc  tor  ©cniuses.        211 

"You  would  have  the  grounds  walled 
in,  I  suppose,  so  that  the  public  could 
not  intrude  ? " 

' '  Weel,  there's  a  difficulty  there, 
because,  ye'll  observe,  as  the  public 
would  support  the  institootion,  they 
would  hae  a  kind  o'  richt  to  look  in. 
How-some-ever,  I  daur  say  we  could 
arrange  to  fling  the  grounds  open  to 
the  public  once  a  week  on  condition 
'at  they  didna  speak  to  the  geniuses. 
I'm  thinkin'  'at  if  there  was  a  small 
chairge  for  admission  the  Home  could 
be  made  self-supportin'.  Losh  !  to 
think  'at  if  there  had  been  sic  an  insti- 
tootion in  his  time  a  man  micht  hae 
sat  on  the  bit  dyke  and  watched  Rob- 
bie Burns  danderin'  roond  the " 

"You  would  divide  the  Home  into 
suites  of  rooms,  so  that  every  inmate 
would  have  his  own  apartments  ^ 

"Not  by  no  means;  na,  na.  The 
mair  I  read  aboot  geniuses  the  mair 


212        21  TKUlnDow  in  ^brums, 

clearly  I  see  as  their  wy  o'  living  alane 
ower  muckle  is  ane  o'  the  things  as 
breaks  doon  their  health,  and  makes 
them  meeserable.  V  the  Home  they 
would  hae  a  bedroom  apiece,  but  the 
parlor  an' the  other  sittin'-rooms  would 
be  for  all,  so  as  they  could  enjoy  ane 
another's  company.  The  manage- 
ment ?  Oh,  that's  aisy.  The  superin- 
tendent would  be  a  medical  man  ap- 
pointed by  Parliament,  and  he  would 
hae  men-servants  to  do  his  biddin'." 

*'Not  all  men-servants,  surely?  " 

**  Every  one  o'  them.  Man,  geniuses 
is  no  to  be  trusted  wi"  womenfolk. 
No,  even  Robbie  Bu " 

''So  he  did  ;  but  would  the  inmates 
have  to  put  themselves  entirely  in  the 
superintendent's  hands  ?  " 

'*Nae  doobt;  an'  they  would  see  it 
was  the  wisest  thing  they  could  do. 
He  would  be  careful  o'  their  health,  an* 
send  them  early  to  bed  as  weel  as  hae 


a  Ibomc  for  Ocniuses.        213 

them  up  at  eight  sharp.  Geniuses' 
healths  is  always  breakin'  doon  because 
of  late  hours,  as  in  the  case  o'  the  lad 
wha  used  often  to  begin  his  immortal 
writin's  at  twal  o'clock  at  nicht,  a  thing 
'at  would  ruin  ony  constitootion.  But 
the  superintendent  would  see  as  they 
had  a  tasty  supper  at  nine  o'clock — 
something  as  agreed  wi'  them.  Then 
for  half  an  hour  they  would  quiet  their 
brains  readin'  oot  aloud,  time  about, 
frae  sic  a  book  as  the  '  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress,' an'  the  gas  would  be  turned  aff 
at  ten  precisely. " 

' '  When  would  you  have  them  up  in 
the  morning  ? " 

"At  sax  in  summer  an'  seven  in 
winter.  The  superintendent  would 
see  as  they  were  all  properly  bathed 
every  mornin',  cleanliness  bein'  most 
important  for  the  preservation  o' 
health." 

"This  sounds  well ;    but  suppose  a 


214       ^  MinDow  in  ^brums, 

genius  broke  the  rules — lay  in  bed,  for 
instance,  reading  by  the  light  of  a 
candle  after  hours,  or  refused  to  take 
his  bath  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"The  superintendent  would  hae  to 
punish  him.  The  genius  would  be 
sent  back  to  his  bed,  maybe.  An'  if 
he  lay  lang  i'  the  mornin'  he  would  hae 
to  gang  withoot  his  breakfast. " 

' '  That  would  be  all  very  well  where 
the  inmate  only  broke  the  regulations 
once  in  a  way  ;  but  suppose  he  were 
to  refuse  to  take  his  bath  day  after  day 
(and,  you  know,  geniuses  are  said  to 
be  eccentric  in  that  particular),  what 
would  be  done  .''  You  could  not  starve 
him  ;  geniuses  are  too  scarce." 

''Na,  na  ;  in  a  case  like  that  he 
would  hae  to  be  reported  to  the  public. 
The  thing  would  hae  to  come  afore 
the  Hoose  of  Commons.  Ay,  the 
superintendent  would  get  a  member 
o'  the  Opposeetion  to  ask  a  queistion 


B  1t)omc  tox  Geniuses.        215 

such  as  'Can  the  honorable  gentleman, 
the  Secretary  of  State  for  Home  Affairs, 
inform  the  Hoose  whether  it  is  a  fac 
that  Mr.  Sic-a-one,  the  well-known 
genius  at  present  resident  in  the  Home 
for  Geniuses,  has,  contrairy  to  regula- 
tions, perseestently  and  obstinately 
refused  to  change  his  linen  ;  and,  if 
so,  whether  the  Government  proposes 
to  take  ony  steps  in  the  matter  ?  '  The 
newspapers  would  report  the  discus- 
sion next  mornin',  an'  so  it  would 
be  made  public  withoot  onneccssary 
ootlay." 

*'In  a  general  way,  however,  you 
would  give  the  geniuses  perfect  free- 
dom ?  They  could  work  when  they 
liked,  and  come  and  go  when  they 
liked  ?  " 

' '  Not  so.  The  superintendent  would 
fix  the  hours  o'  wark,  an'  they  would 
all  write,  or  whatever  it  was,  thegither 
in    one    large   room.     Man,    man,    it 


2i6        B  'MinDovv  in  ^brums, 

would  mak  a  grand  draw  for  a  painter- 
chield,  that  room,  wi'  all  the  geniuses 
working  awa'  thegither. " 

"But  when  the  labors  of  the  day- 
were  over  the  genius  would  be  a.f 
liberty  to  make  calls  by  himself,  or,  to 
run  up,  say,  to  London  for  an  hour  or 
two  ? "' 

"  Hoots  no,  that  would  spoil  every- 
thing. It  is  the  drink,  ye  see,  as  does 
for  a  terrible  lot  o'  geniuses.  Even 
Rob ■' 


"Alas!  yes.  But  would  you  have 
them  all  teetotalers  .?  " 

"What  do  ye  tak  me  for  ?  Na,  na  ; 
the  superintendent  would  allow  them 
one  glass  o'  toddy  every  nicht,  an'  mix 
it  himsel' ;  but  he  would  never  let  the 
keys  o'  the  press,  whaur  he  kept  the 
drink,  oot  o'  his  hands.  They  would 
never  be  allowed  oot  o'  the  gairden 
either,  withoot  a  man  to  look  after 
them  :    an'  I  wouldna  burthen   them 


B  Ibomc  tor  Geniuses. 


217 


wi'  ower  muckle  pocket  money  Sax- 
pence  in  the  week  would  be  suffee- 
cient." 

"  How  about  their  clothes  ?  " 

''They  would  get  twa  suits  a  year, 
wi'  the  letter  G  sewed  on  the  shoulders, 
so  as  if  they  were  lost  they  could  be 
recognized  and  brocht  back." 

"Certainly  it  is  a  scheme  deserving 
consideration,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
our  geniuses  would  jump  at  it  ;  but 
you  must  remember  that  some  of  them 
would  have  wives." 

"Ay.  an'  some  o'  them  would  hae 
husbands.  I've  been  thinkin*  that  oot, 
an'  I  daur  say  the  best  plan  would  be 
to  partition  aff  a  pairt  o'  the  Home  for 
female  geniuses. " 

"  Would  Parliament  elect  the  mem- 
bers ? " 

"I  wouldna  trust  them.  The  elec- 
tion would  hae  to  be  by  competitive 
examination.     Na,   I  canna   say  wha 


2i8       ^  liminDow  in  Zhx\xme. 

would  draw  up  the  queistions.  The 
scheme's  jui?t  growin'  i'  my  mind, 
but  the  mair  X  think  o"t  the  better  I 
Uke  it." 


Xeebs  anD  5amlc.  219 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LEEBY    AND    JAMIE. 

By  the  bank  of  the  Quharity  on  a 
summer  day  I  have  seen  a  barefooted 
girl    gaze    at  the  running  water  until 
tears   filled  her  eyes.     That  was   the 
birth  of  romance.     Whether  this  love 
be  but  a  beautiful  dream  I  cannot  say, 
but  this  we  see,  that  it  comes  to  all, 
and  colors  the  whole  future  life  with 
gold.     Leeby  must  have    dreamed  it, 
but  I  did  not  know  her  then.     I  have 
heard  of  a  man  who  would  have  taken 
her  far  away  into  a  county  where  the 
corn   is  yellow  when  it  is   still  green 
with  us,  but  she  would  not  leave  her 
mother,  nor  was  it  him  she  saw  in  her 
dream.     From  her  earliest  days,  when 


2  20       B  "MinDow  in  ^brums. 

she  was  still  a  child  staggering  round 
the  garden  with  Jamie  in  her  arms, 
her  duty  lay  before  her,  straight  as  the 
burying-ground  road.  Jess  had  need 
of  her  in  the  little  home  at  the  top  of 
the  brae,  where  God,  looking  down 
upon  her  as  she  scrubbed  and  gos- 
siped and  sat  up  all  night  with  her 
ailing  mother,  and  never  missed  the 
prayer-meeting,  and  adored  the  minis- 
ter, did  not  perhaps  think  her  the  least 
of  His  handmaids.  Her  years  w^ere 
less  than  thirty  when  He  took  her 
away,  but  she  had  few  days  that  were 
altogether  dark.  Those  who  bring 
sunshine  to  the  lives  of  others  cannot 
keep  it  from  themselves. 

The  love  Leeby  bore  for  Jamie  was 
such  that  in  their  younger  days  it 
shamed  him.  Other  laddies  knew  of 
it,  and  flung  it  at  him  until  he  dared 
Leeby  to  let  on  in  public  that  he  and 
she  were  related. 


Xeebg  auD  ^arnlc.  221 

"  Hoo  is  your  lass?"'  they  used  to 
cry  to  him,  inventing-  a  new  game. 

"  I  saw  Leeby  lookin'  for  ye,"  they 
would  say  ;  "she's  wearyin'  for  ye  to 
gang  an'  play  wi'  her." 

Then  if  they  were  not  much  bigger 
boys  than  himself,  Jamie  got  them 
against  the  dyke  and  hit  them  hard 
until  they  publicly  owned  to  knowing 
that  she  was  his  sister,  and  that  he 
was  not  fond  of  her. 

"It  distressed  him  mair  than  ye 
could  believe,  though,"  Jess  has  told 
me ;  ' '  an'  when  he  came  hame  he 
would  greet  an'  say  'at  Leeby  dis- 
graced him. " 

Leeby,  of  course,  suffered  for  her 
too  obvious  affection. 

"I  wonder  'at  ye  dinna  try  to  con- 
trol yersel',"' Jamie  would  say  to  her, 
as  he  grew  bigger. 

"'Am  sure,"  said  Leeby,  "I  never 
i^ne  ye  a  look  if  there's  onybody  there." 


22  2        B  "CBlinDovv  in  ^brums. 

'•'  A  look  !  You're  aye  lookin'  at  me 
sae  fond-like  'at  I  dinna  ken  what  wy 
to  turn." 

"  Weel,  I  canna  help  it,"  said 
Leeby,  probably  beginning  to  whim- 
per. 

If  Jamie  was  in  a  very  bad  temper 
he  left  her,  after  this,  to  her  own  re- 
flections ;  but  he  was  naturally  soft- 
hearted. 

"'Am  no  tellin'  ye  no  to  care  for 
me,"  he  told  her,  "but  juist  to  keep  it 
mair  to  yersel'.  Naebody  would  ken 
frae  me  'at  'am  fond  o'  ye.'" 

"  Mebbe  yer  no  ?  "  said  Leeby. 

"Ay,  am  I,  but  I  can  keep  it  secret. 
When  we're  in  the  hoose  "am  juist 
richt  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Do  ye  love  me,  Jamie  .^" 

Jamie  waggled  his  head  in  irritation. 

' '  Love, "  he  said,  ' '  is  an  awfu'-like 
word  to  use  when  fowk's  week  Ye 
shouldna  spier  sicannoyin'  queistions." 


Xeeb^  auD  5amie.  223 

"  But  if  ye  juist  say  ye  love  me  I'll 
never  let  on  again  afore  fowk  'at  yer 
onything  to  me  ava. " 

*'Ay,  ye  often  say  that." 

"  Do  ye  no  believe  my  word  ?  " 

*'I  believe  fine  ye  mean  what  ye 
say,  but  ye  forget  yersel'  when  the 
time  comes." 

"Juist  try  me  this  time." 

''Weel,  then,  I  do." 

"  Do  what  ?  "  asked  the  greedy 
Leeby. 

"What  ye  said." 

"  I  said  love." 

"  Weel,"  said  Jamie,  "  I  do't." 

"What  do  ye  do  ?     Say  the  word." 

"Na,"  said  Jamie,  "I  winna  say 
the  word.  It's  no  a  word  to  say,  but 
I  do't." 

That  was  all  she  could  get  out  oi 
him,  unless  he  was  stricken  with  re- 
morse, when  he  even  went  the  length 
of  saying  the  word. 


2  24       21  "MinDow  in  G:brum5, 

"Leeby  kent  perfectly  weel,"  Jess 
has  said,  " 'at  it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie 
to  tak  her  ony  gait,  an'  I  often  used  to 
say  to  her  'at  I  wonder  at  her  want  o' 
pride  in  priggin'  wi'  him.  Ay,  but  if 
she  could  juist  get  a  promise  wrung 
oot  o'  him,  she  didna  care  hoo  muckle 
she  had  to  prig.  Syne  they  quarreled, 
an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them  grat  (cried) 
afore  they  made  it  up.  I  mind  when 
Jamie  went  to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was 
aye  terrible  keen  to  get  wi'  him,  but 
ye  see  he  couldna  be  seen  gaen  through 
the  toon  wi'  her.  '  If  ye  let  me  gang,' 
she  said  to  him,  '  I'll  no  seek  to  go 
through  the  toon  wi'  ye.  Na,  I'll  gang 
roond  by  the  roods  an'  you  can  tak 
the  buryin'-ground  road,  so  as  we  can 
meet  on  the  hill.'  Yes.  Leeby  was 
willin'  to  agree  wi'  a'  that,  juist  to  get 
gaen  wi'  him.  I've  seen  lassies  mak- 
kin'  themsel's  sma'  for  lads  often 
enough,  but  I  never  saw  ane  'at  prigged 


%ccb^  anD  5amie.  225 

so  muckle  wi'  her  ain  brother.  Na, 
it's  other  lassies'  brothers  they  like  as  a 
rule." 

"  But  though  Jamie  was  terrrible  re- 
served aboot  it,''  said  Leeby,  "  he  was 
as  fond  o'  me  as  ever  I  was  o'  him. 
Ye  mind  the  time  I  had  the  measles, 
mother  ?  " 

"  'Am  no  likely  to  forget  it,  Leeby," 
said  Jess,  "  an'  you  blind  wi'  them  for 
three  days.  Ay,  ay,  Jamie  was  richt 
ta'en  up  aboot  ye.  I  mind  he  broke 
open  his  pirly  (money-box),  an'  bocht 
a  ha'penny  worth  o'  something  to  ye 
every  day. " 

*'An'  ye  hinna  forgotten  the  stick.?  " 

'''Deed  no,  I  hinna.  Ye  see,"  Jess 
explained  to  me,  ''Leeby  was  lyin* 
ben  the  hoose,  an'  Jamie  wasna 
allowed  to  gang  near  her  for  fear  o'  in- 
fection. Weel,  he  got  a  lang  stick — it 
was  a  pea-stick — an'  put  it  aneath  the 
door  an'  waggled  it.  Ay,  he  did  that 
IS 


2  26        B  "MlnDow  in  ^brums. 

a  curran  times  every  day,  juist  to  let 
her  see  he  was  thinkin'  o'  her." 

"  Mair  than  that,"  said  Leeby,  "he 
cried  oot  'at  he  loved  me." 

"Ay,  but  juist  aince,"  Jess  said,  "I 
dinna  mind  o't  butaince.  It  was  the 
time  the  doctor  came  late,  an'  Jamie, 
being  waukened  by  him,  thocht  ye 
was  deein'.  I  mind  as  if  it  w^as  yes- 
terday hoo  he  cam  runnin'  to  the  door 
an'  cried  oot,  '  I  do  love  ye,  Leeby  ;  I 
love  ye  richt.'  The  doctor  got  a  start 
when  he  heard  the  voice,  but  he  laughed 
loud  when  he  un'erstood." 

''He  had  nae  business,  though," 
said  Leeby,  "  to  tell  onybody." 

''He  w^as  a  rale  clever  man,  the 
doctor,"  Jess  explained  to  me,  "  ay,  he 
kent  me  as  weel  as  though  he'd  gaen 
through  me  wi*  a  lichted  candle.  It 
got  oot  through  him,  an'  the  young 
billies  took  to  sayin'  to  Jamie,  '  Ye  do 
love  her,  Jamie  ;  ay,  ye  love  her  richt' 


Xcebs  anO  5amic.  227 

The  only  reg'lar  fecht  I  ever  kent 
Jamie  hae  was  wi'  a  lad  'at  cried  that 
to  him.  It  was  Bowlegs  Chirsty's 
laddie.  Ay,  but  when  she  got  better 
Jamie  blamed  Leeby.'' 

*'He  no  only  blamed  me,"  said 
Leeby,  **  but  he  wanted  me  to  pay  him 
back  a'  the  bawbees  he  had  spent  on 
me." 

'*  Ay,  an'  I  sepad  he  got  them  too," 
said  Jess. 

In  time  Jamie  became  a  barber  in 
Tilliedrum,  trudging  many  heavy 
miles  there  and  back  twice  a  day  that 
he  might  sleep  at  home,  trudging 
bravely  I  was  to  say,  but  it  was  what 
he  was  born  to,  and  there  was  hardly 
an  alternative.  This  was  the  time  I 
saw  most  of  him,  and  he  and  Leeby 
were  often  in  my  thoughts.  There  is 
as  terrible  a  bubble  in  the  little  kettle 
as  on  the  caldron  of  the  world,  and 
some  of  the  scenes  between  Jamie  and 


2  28        B  IKHinDow  in  ^brums. 

Leeby  were  great  tragedies,  comedies, 
what  you  will,  until  the  kettle  was 
taken  off  the  fire.  Hers  was  the  more 
placid  temper  ;  indeed,  only  in  one 
way  could  Jamie  suddenly  rouse  her 
to  fury.  That  was  when  he  hinted 
that  she  had  a  large  number  of  frocks. 
Leeby  knew  that  there  could  never  be 
more  than  a  Sabbath  frock  and  an 
every-day  gown  for  her,  both  of  her 
mother's  making,  but  Jamie's  insinua- 
tions were  more  than  she  could  bear. 
Then  I  have  seen  her  seize  and  shake 
him.  I  know  from  Jess  that  Leeby 
cried  herself  hoarse  the  day  Joey  was 
buried,  because  her  little  black  frock 
was  not  ready  for  wear. 

Until  he  went  to  Tilliedrum  Jamie 
had  been  more  a  stay-at-home  boy 
than  most.  The  warmth  of  Jess'  love 
had  something  to  do  with  keeping  his 
heart  aglow,  but  more,  I  think,  he 
owed   to  Leeby.     Tilliedrum  was  his 


%ccM  anO  5anue.  229 

introduction  to  the  world,  and  for  a 
little  it  took  his  head.  I  was  in  the 
house  the  Sabbath  day  that  he  refused 
to  go  to  church. 

He  went  out  in  the  forenoon  to  meet 
the  Tilliedrum  lads,  who  were  to  take 
him  off  for  a  holiday  in  a  cart.  Hen- 
dry was  more  wrathful  than  I  remem- 
ber ever  to  have  seen  him,  though  I 
have  heard  how  he  did  with  the  lodger 
who  broke  the  Lords  Day.  This 
lodger  was  a  tourist  who  thought,  in 
folly  surely  rather  than  in  hardness  of 
heart,  to  test  the  religious  convictions 
of  an  Auld  Licht  by  insisting  on  pay- 
ing his  bill  on  a  Sabbath  morning.  He 
offered  the  money  to  Jess,  with  the 
warning  that  if  she  did  not  take  it  now 
she  might  never  see  it.  Jess  was  so 
kind  and  good  to  her  lodgers  that  he 
could  not  have  known  her  long  who 
troubled  her  with  this  poor  trick.  She 
was   sorely  in  need  at  the   time,  and 


230       B  MinDovv  in  ^brums. 

entreated  the  thoughtless  man  to  have 
some  pity  on  her. 

"Now  or  never,"  he  said,  holding 
out  the  money. 

' '  Put  it  on  the  dresser, "  said  Jess  at 
last,   "  an'  I'll  get  it  the  morn." 

The  few  shillin^^fs  were  laid  on 
the  dresser,  where  they  remained 
unfingered  until  Hendry,  with  Leeby 
and  Jamie,  came  in  from  church. 

' '  What  siller's  that .?  "  asked  Hendry, 
and  then  Jess  confessed  what  she  had 
done. 

"I  wonder  at  ye,  woman," said  Hen- 
dry sternly  ;  and  lifting  the  money  he 
climbed  up  to  the  attic  with  it. 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  con- 
fronted the  lodger. 

"Take  back  yer  siller,"  he  said,  lay- 
ing it  on  the  table,  "an'  leave  my 
hoose.  Man,  you're  a  pitiable  crittur 
to  take  the  chance,  when  I  was  oot,  o' 
playin'  upon  the  poverty  o'  an  onweel 
-woman." 


%cc\)^  anD  5amic.  231 

It  was  with  such  unwonted  severity 
2kv  this  that  Hendry  called  upon  Jamie 
to.  follow  him  to  church  ;  but  the  boy 
went  off,  and  did  not  return  till  dusk, 
defiant  and  miserable.  Jess  had  been 
so  terrified  that  she  forgave  him  every- 
thing for  sight  of  his  face,  and  Hendry 
prayed  for  him  at  family  worship  with 
too  much  unction.  But  Leeby  cried 
as  if  her  tender  heart  would  break. 
For  a  long  time  Jamie  refused  to  look 
at  her,  but  at  last  he  broke  down. 

' '  If  ye  go  on  like  that, ''  he  said,  ' '  Fll 
gang  awa  oot  an'  droon  mysel',  or  be 
a  sojer. " 

This  was  no  uncommon  threat  of  his, 
and  sometimes,  when  he  went  off, 
banging  the  door  violently,  she  ran 
after  him  and  brought  him  back.  This 
time  she  only  wept  the  more,  and  so 
both  went  to  bed  in  misery.  It  was 
after  midnight  that  Jamie  rose  and 
crept  to  Leeby 's  bedside.     Leeby  was 


23; 


B  mini^ow  in  ^brums. 


shaking  the  bed  m  her  agony.  Jess 
heard  what  they  said. 

' '  Leeby, "  said  Jamie,  ' '  dinna  greet, 
an'  I'll  never  do't  again." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she 
kissed  him  passionately. 

' ' O  Jamie, "  she  said,  "  hae  ye  prayed 
to  God  to  forgie  ye  ?  " 

Jamie  did  not  speak. 

"  If  ye  was  to  die  this  nicht,"  cried 
Leeby,  "  an' you  no  made  it  up  wi' 
God,  ye  wouldna  gang  to  heaven. 
Jamie,  I  canna  sleep  till  ye've  made  it 
up  wi'  God." 

But  Jamie  sttll  hung  back.  Leeby 
slipped  from  her  bed,  and  went  down 
on  her  knees. 

''O  God,  O  dear  God,"  she  cried, 
"  mak  Jamie  to  pray  to  you  !  " 

Then  Jamie  went  down  on  his  knees 
too,  and  they  made  it  up  with  God  to- 
gether. 

This  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  remem- 


Xeebis  ?»"^  5amie.  233 

ber  all  these  years,  and  yet  how  fresh 
and  sweet  it  keeps  Lecby  in  my  mem- 
ory. 

Away  up  in  the  glen,  my  lonely 
school-house  lying  deep,  as  one  might 
say,  in  a  sea  of  snow,  I  had  many 
hours  in  the  years  long  by  for  thinking 
of  my  friends  in  Thrums  and  mapping 
out  the  future  of  Leeby  and  Jamie.  I 
saw  Hendry  and  Jess  taken  to  the 
churchyard,  and  Leeby  left  alone  in 
the  house.  I  saw  Jamie  fulfill  his 
promise  to  his  mother,  and  take  Leeby, 
that  stainless  young  woman,  far  away 
to  London,  where  they  had  a  home 
together.  Ah,  but  these  were  only  the 
idle  dreams  of  a  dominie.  The  Lord 
willed  it  otherwise. 


234        ^  11ClinC)ow  in  G;brum6. 
CHAPTER   XIX. 

A      TALE      OF     A      GLOVE. 

§0  long  as  Jamie  was  not  the  lad, 
Jess  twinkled  gleefully  over  tales  of 
sweethearting.  There  was  little 
Kitty  Lamby  who  used  to  skip  in  of 
an  evening,  and,  squatting  on  a  stool 
near  the  window,  unwind  the  roll  of 
her  enormities.  A  wheedling  thing 
she  was,  with  an  ambition  to  drive 
men  crazy,  but  my  presence  killed  the 
gossip  on  her  tongue,  though  I  liked 
to  look  at  her.  When  I  entered,  the 
wag-at-the-wa'  clock  had  again  pos- 
session of  the  kitchen.  I  never  heard 
more  than  the  end  of  a  sentence  : 

"An'  did   he   really  say  he   would 
fling  himsel'  into  the  dam,  Kitty }  " 


B  ^alc  of  a  (5love.  235 

Or — "True  as  death,  Jess,  he  kissed 
me." 

Then  I  wandered  away  from  the 
kitchen,  where  I  was  not  wanted,  and 
marveled  to  know  that  Jess  of  the 
tender  heart  laughed  most  merrily 
when  he  really  did  say  that  he  was 
going  straight  to  the  dam.  As  no 
body  was  found  in  the  dam  in  those 
days,  whoever  he  was  he  must  have 
thouo^ht  better  of  it. 

But  let  Kitty,  or  any  other  maid, 
cast  a  glinting  eye  on  Jamie,  then 
Jess  no  longer  smiled.  If  he  returned 
the  glance  she  sat  silent  in  her  chair 
till  Leeby  laughed  away  her  fears. 

"Jamie's  no  the  kind,  mother, '' 
Leeby  would  say.  "Na,  he's  quiet, 
but  he  sees  through  them.  They 
dinna  draw  his  leg  "  (get  over  him). 

"Ye  never  can  tell,  Leeby.  The 
laddies  'at's  maist  ill  to  get  sometimes 
gangs  up  in  a  flame  a'  at  aince,  like  a 
bit  o'  paper." 


236       U  MinDow  in  Q:brum6. 

"Ay,  weel,  at  ony  rate  Jamie's  no 
on  fire  yet. " 

Though  clever  beyond  her  neigh- 
bors, Jess  lost  all  her  sharpness  if  they 
spoke  of  a  lassie  for  Jamie. 

"I  warrant,"  Tibbie  Birse  said  one 
day  in  my  hearing,  ' '  'at  there's  some 
leddy  in  London  he's  thinkin'  o'.  Ay, 
he's  been  a  guid  laddie  to  ye,  but  i' 
the  coorse  o'  nature  he'll  be  settlin' 
dune  soon." 

Jess  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  a 
picture  of  woe. 

•"  Ye're  lettin'  what  Tibbie  Birse 
said  lie  on  yer  mind, "  Leeby  remarked, 
when  Tibbie  was  gone.  "What  can 
it  maiter  what  she  thinks  ?  " 

"I  canna  help  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess. 
"Na,  an'  I  canna  bear  to  think  o' 
Jamie  bein'  mairit.  It  would  lay  me 
low  to  loss  my  laddie.  No  yet,  no 
yet. " 

"But,   mother,"  said  Leeby,    quot- 


B  Z^lc  Of  a  (3love»  237 

ing  from  the  minister  at  weddings, 
''ye  wouldna  be  lossin'  a  son,  but 
juist  gainin'  a  dochter." 

"Dinna  haver,  Leeby,"  answered 
Jess,  "  I  want  nane  o'  thae  dochters ; 
na,  na.  ' 

This  talk  took  place  while  we  were 
still  awaiting  Jamie's  coming.  He 
had  only  been  with  us  one  day  when 
Jess  made  a  terrible  discovery.  She 
was  looking  so  mournful  when  I  saw 
her,  that  I  asked  Leeby  what  was 
wrong. 

"She's  brocht  it  on  hersel','*'  said 
Leeby.  "Ye  see,  she  was  up  sune  i' 
the  mornin'  to  begin  to  the  darnin'  o' 
Jamie's  stockin's  an'  to  warm  his  sark 
at  the  fire  afore  he  put  it  on.  He 
woke  up,  an'  cried  to  her  'at  he  wasna 
accustomed  to  hae'n  his  things  warmed 
for  him.  Ay,  he  cried  it  oot  fell 
thrawn,  so  she  took  it  into  her  head 
'at  there  was  something  in  his  pouch 


238       B  MinDow  in  Q:brum5. 

he  didna  want  her  to  see.  She  was 
even  onaisy  last  nicht. " 

I  asked  what  had  aroused  Jess'  sus- 
picions last  night, 

"Ou,  ye  would  notice  'at  she  sat 
devourin'  him  wi'  her  een,  she  was  so 
lifted  up  at  hae'n  'im  again.  Weel, 
she  says  noo  'at  she  saw  'im  twa  or 
three  times  put  his  hand  in  his  pouch 
as  if  he  was  fin  din'  to  mak  sure  'at 
something-  was  safe.  wSo  when  he  fell 
asleep  again  this  mornin'  she  got  haud 
o'  his  jacket  to  see  if  there  was  ony- 
thing  in't.  I  advised  her  no  to  do't, 
but  she  couldna  help  hersel'.  She  put 
in  her  hand,  an'  pu'd  it  oot.  That's 
what's  makkin'  her  look  sae  ill. " 

"  But  what  was  it  she  found  ?  " 

' '  Did  I  no  tell  ye  ?  I'm  ga'en 
dottle,  I  think.  It  was  a  glove,  a 
woman's  glove,  in  a  bit  paper.  Ay, 
though  she's  sittin'  still  she's  near 
frantic." 


a  ^ale  of  a  (5love.  239 

I  said  I  supposed  Jess  had  put  the 
glove  back  in  Jamie's  pocket. 

''Na,"  said  Leeby,  "'deed  no.  She 
wanted  to  fling  it  on  the  back  o'  the 
fire,  but  I  wouldna  let  her.  That's  it 
she  has  aneath  her  apron." 

Later  in  the  day  I  remarked  to  Leeby 
that  Jamie  was  very  dull. 

"  He's  missed  it,"  she  explained. 

"Has  any  one  mentioned  it  to 
him  ?  "  I  asked,  ' '  or  has  he  inquired 
about  it  ? '' 

"Na,"  said  Leeby,  "there  hasna 
been  a  syllup  (syllable)  aboot  it.  My 
mother's  fleid  to  mention't,  an'  he 
doesna  like  to  speak  aboot  it  either. " 

"Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  lost  it.? " 

"Nae  fear  o'  him,"  Leeby  said. 
"  Na,  he  kens  fine  wha  has't." 

I  never  knew  how  Jamie  came  by 
the  glove,  nor  whether  it  had  origi- 
nally belonged  to  her  who  made  him 
forget  the  window  at  the  top  of  the  brae. 


24 o        B  "MinDow  in  ^brums. 

At  the  time  I  looked  on  as  at  play- 
acting, rejoicing  in  the  happy  ending. 
Alas  !  in  the  real  life  how  are  we  to 
know  when  we  have  reached  an  end  ? 

But  this  glove,  I  say,  may  not  have 
been  that  woman's,  and  if  it  was,  she 
had  not  then  bedeviled  him.  He  was 
too  sheepish  to  demand  it  back  from 
his  mother,  and  already  he  cared  for  it 
too  much  to  laugh  at  Jess'  theft  with 
Leeby.  So  it  was  that  a  curious  game 
at  chess  was  played  with  the  glove, 
the  players  a  silent  pair. 

Jamie  cared  little  to  read  books,  but 
on  the  day  following  Jess'  discovery, 
I  found  him  on  his  knees  in  the  attic, 
looking  through  mine.  A  little  box, 
without  a  lid,  held  them  all,  but  they 
seemed  a  great  library  to  him. 

"There's  readin'  for  a  lifetime  in 
them,"  he  said.  "I  was  juist  takkin' 
a  look  through  them." 

His  face  was  guilty,  however,  as  if 


a  Xlale  of  a  (3love»  241 

his  hand  had  been  caught  in  a  money- 
bag, and  I  wondered  what  had  enticed 
the  lad  to  my  books.  I  was  still  stand- 
ing pondering  when  Leeby  ran  up  the 
stair ;  she  was  so  active  that  she 
generally  ran,  and  she  grudged  the 
time  lost  in  recovering  her  breath. 

"  I'll  put  yer  books  richt, "  she  said, 
making  her  word  good  as  she  spoke. 
"  I  kent  Jamie  had  been  ransackin'  up 
here,  though  he  came  up  rale  canny. 
Ay,  ye  would  notice  he  was  in  his 
stockin'  soles." 

I  had  not  noticed  this,  but  I  remem- 
bered now  his  slipping  from  the  room 
very  softly.  If  he  wanted  a  book,  I 
told  Leeby,  he  could  have  got  it  with- 
out any  display  of  cunning. 

"It's  no  a  book  he's  looking  for," 
she  said,   "na,  it's  his  glove." 

The  time  of  day  was  early  for  Leeby 
to   gossip,  but   I    detained  her   for  a 
moment. 
16 


242       B  MinDow  in  ^brunts. 

' '  My  mother's  hodded  (hid)  it, "  she 
explained,  "an'  he  winna  speir  nae 
queistions.  But  he's  lookin'  for't.  He 
was  ben  in  the  room  searchin'  the 
drawers  when  I  was  up  i'  the  toon  in 
the  forenoon.  Ye  see,  he  pretends  no 
to  be  carin'  afore  me,  an'  though  my 
mother's  sittin'  sae  quiet-like  at  the 
window  she's  hearkenin'  a'  the  time. 
Ay,  an'  he  thocht  I  had  hod  it  up 
here." 

But  where,  I  asked,  was  the  glove  hid. 

*'I  ken  nae  mair  than  yersel',"  said 
Leeby.  "  My  mother's  gien  to  hod- 
din'  things.  She  has  a  place  aneath 
the  bed  whaur  she  keeps  the  siller,  an' 
she's  no  speakin'  aboot  the  glove  to  me 
noo,  because  she  thinks  Jamie  an' 
me's  in  comp  (company).  I  speired 
at  her  whaur  she  had  hod  it,  but  she 
juist  said,  '  What  would  I  be  doin' 
hoddin't } '  She'll  never  admit  to  me 
'at  she  hods  .the  siller  either. " 


21  ^ale  of  a  (3lovc.  243 

Next  day  Leeby  came  to  me  with 
the  latest  news. 

"He's  foundit,"  shesaid,  "ay,  he's 
got  the  giove  again.  Ye  see,  what 
put  him  on  the  wrang  scent  was  a 
notion  'at  I  had  put  it  some  gait.  He 
kent  'at  if  she'd  hod  it,  the  kitchen 
maun  be  the  place,  but  he  thocht  she'd 
gien  it  to  me  to  hod.  He  cameupon't 
by  accident.  It  was  aneath  the  paddin' 
o'  her  chair. " 

Here,  I  thought,  was  the  end  of  the 
glove  incident,  but  I  was  mistaken. 
There  were  no  presses  or  drawers 
with  locks  in  the  house,  and  Jess  got 
hold  of  the  glove  again.  I  suppose 
she  had  reasoned  out  no  line  of  action. 
She  merely  hated  the  thought  that 
Jamie  should  have  a  woman's  glove  in 
his  possession. 

"She  beats  a'  wi'  'cuteness, ''  Leeby 
said  to  me.  "Jamie  didna  put  the 
glove  back  in  his  pouch.     Na,  he  kens 


244       21  WfitDow  in  ^brums, 

her  ower  weel  by  this  time.  She  was 
up,  though,  lang  afore  he  was  wauken, 
an'  she  gaed  almost  strecht  to  the 
place  whaur  he  had  hod  it.  I  believe 
she  lay  waukin  a'  nicht  thinkin'  oot 
whaur  it  would  be.  Ay,  it  was  aneath 
the  mattress.  I  saw  her  hodden't  i'  the 
back  o'the  drawer,  but  I  didna  let  on." 

I  quite  believed  Leeby  when  she 
told  me  afterward  that  she  had  watched 
Jamie  feeling  beneath  the  mattress. 

''He  had  a  face, "  she  said,  "I  as- 
sure ye,  he  had  a  face,  when  he  dis- 
covered the  glove  was  gone  again." 

"He  maun  be  terrible  ta'en  up 
aboot  it,"  Jess  said  to  Leeby,  "or  he 
wouldna  keep  it  aneath  the  mattress." 

"Od,"  said  Leeby,  "  it  was  yersel' 
'at  drove  him  to't. " 

Again  Jamie  recovered  his  property, 
and  again  Jess  got  hold  of  it.  This 
time  he  looked  in  vain.  I  learned  the 
fate  of  the  glove  from  Leeby. 


B  ^alc  of  a  (3love.  245 

''Ye  mind  'at  she  keepit  him  hame 
frae  the  kirk  on  Sabbath,  because  he 
had  a  cauld  ? "  Leeby  said.  "Ay, 
me  or  my  father  would  hae  a  gey  ill 
cauld  afore  she  would  let's  bide  at 
hame  frae  the  kirk  ;  but  Jamie's  differ- 
ent. VVeel,  mair  than  aince  she's  been 
near  speakin'  to  'im  aboot  the  glove, 
but  she  grew  fleid  aye.  She  was  sae 
terrified  there  was  something  in't. 

"On  Sabbath,  though,  she  had  him 
to  hersel',  an'  he  wasna  so  bright  as 
usual.  She  sat  wi'  the  Bible  on  her 
lap,  pretendin'  to  read,  but  a'  the  time 
she  was  takkin'  keeks  (glances)  at  him. 
I  dinna  ken  'at  he  was  broodin'  ower 
the  glove,  but  she  thocht  he  was,  an' 
juist  afore  the  kirk  came  oot  she 
couldna  stand  it  nae  langer.  She  put 
her  hand  in  her  pouch,  an'  pu'd  oot  the 
glove,  wi'  the  paper  round  it,  juist  as 
it  had  been  when  she  cam?!  upon't. 

"'That's   yours,  Jamie/  she  said; 


246       B  TiminOow  in  ^brums. 

'it  was  ill-dune  o'  me  to  tak  it,  but  I 
couldna  help  it.' 

**  Jamie  put  oot  his  hand,  an' syne 
he  drew  it  back.  '  It's  no  a  thing  o' 
nae  consequence,  mother,'  he  said. 

•'  'Wha  is  she,  Jamie.?'  my  mother 
said. 

"He  turned  awa  his  heid — so  she 
telt  me.  'It's  a  lassie  in  London,'  he 
said,   'I  dinna  ken  her  muckle. ' 

"  'Ye  maun  ken  her  weel,'  my 
mother  persisted,  'to  be  carryin'  aboot 
her  glove  ;  I'm  dootin'  yer  gey  fond  o' 
her,  Jamie } ' 

"  '  Na, '  said  Jamie,  '  'am  no.  There's 
no  naebody  I  care  for  like  yersel', 
mother. ' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  carry  aboot  onything 
o'  mine,  Jamie,'  my  mother  said  ;  but 
he  says,  'Oh,  mother,  I  carry  aboot 
yer  face  wi'  me  aye  ;  an'  sometimes  at 
nicht  I  kind  o'  greet  to  think  o'  ye.' 

"Ay,  after  that  I've  nae  doot  he  was 


B  ^ale  of  a  ©love.  247 

sittin'  wi'  his  arms  aboot  her.  She 
didna  tell  me  that,  but  weel  he  kens 
it's  what  she  likes,  an'  she  maks  nae 
pretense  o'  it's  no  bein'.  But  for  a'  he 
said  an'  did,  she  noticed  him  put  the 
glove  back  in  his  inside  pouch. 

"  'It's  wrang  o'  me,  Jamie,'  she  said, 
'but  I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  ye  carryin* 
that  aboot  sae  carefu'.  No,  I  canna 
help  it' 

*'Weel,  Jamie,  the  crittur,  took  it 
oot  o'  his  pouch,  an'  kind  o'  hesitated. 
Syne  he  lays  't  on  the  back  o'  the  fire, 
an'  they  sat  thegither  glowerin'  at  it. 

'''Noo,  mother,'  he  says,  'you're 
satisfied,  are  ye  no  ? ' 

''Ay,"  Leeby  ended  her  story,  "she 
said  she  was  satisfied.  But  she  saw 
'at  he  laid  it  on  the  fire  fell  fond-like." 


248       B  TKIltnDow  in  ^brums. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE     LAST     NIGHT. 

*'JuiST  another  sax  nichts,  Jamie," 
Jess  would  say,  sadly.  "  Juist  fower 
nichts  noo,  an'  you'll  be  awa. "  Even 
as  she  spoke  seemed  to  come  the  last 
night. 

The  last  night !  Reserve  slipped 
unheeded  to  the  floor.  Hendry  wan- 
dered ben  and  but  the  house,  and 
Jamie  sat  at  the  window  holding  his 
mother's  hand.  You  must  walk  softly 
now  if  you  would  cross  that  humble 
threshold.  I  stop  at  the  door.  Then, 
as  now,  I  was  a  lonely  man,  and  when 
the  last  night  came  the  attic  was  the 
place  for  me. 


Zbc  ILast  WQbU  249 

This  family  affection,  how  good  and 
beautiful  it  is  !  Men  and  maids  love, 
and  after  many  years  they  may  rise  to 
this.  It  is  the  grand  proof  of  the  good- 
ness in  human  nature,  for  it  means 
that  the  more  we  see  of  each  other  the 
more  we  find  that  is  lovable.  If  you 
would  cease  to  dislike  a  man,  try  to 
get  nearer  his  heart. 

Leeby  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for 
bustling  about.  Everything  was  ready 
— too  soon.  Hendry  had  been  to  the 
fish-cadger  in  the  square  to  get  a  bervie 
for  Jamie's  supper,  and  Jamie  had 
eaten  it,  trying  to  look  as  if  it  made 
him  happier.  His  little  box  was 
packed  and  strapped,  and  stood  terri- 
bly conspicuous  against  the  dresser. 
Jess  had  packed  it  herself 

*' Ye  mauna  trachle  (trouble)  yersel', 
mother,"  Jamie  said,  when  she  had  the 
empty  box  pulled  toward  her. 

Leeby  was  ^iser. 


250       B  IKHinDow  In  ^brunts. 

"  Let  her  do't,"  she  whispered,  "  itll 
keep  her  frae  broodin'." 

Jess  tied  ends  of  yarn  round  the 
stockings  to  keep  them  in  a  little 
bundle  by  themselves.  So  she  did 
with  all  the  other  articles. 

"No  'at  it's  ony  great  affair,"  she 
said,  for  on  the  last  night  they  were 
all  thirsting  to  do  something  for  Jamie 
that  would  be  a  great  affair  to  him. 

"Ah,  ye  would  wonder,  mother,'' 
Jamie  said,  "when  I  open  my  box 
an'  find  a'thing  tied  up  wi"  strings  sae 
careful,  it  a'  comes  back  to  me  wi'  a 
rush  wha  did  it,  an'  'am  as  fond  o'thae 
strings  as  though  they  were  a  grand 
present.  There's  the  pocky  (bag)  ye 
gae  me  to  keep  sewin'  things  in.  I  get 
the  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  to  sew  to  me,  but 
often  when  I  come  upon  the  pocky  I 
sit  an'  look  at  it." 

Two  chairs  were  backed  to  the  fire, 
with    underclothing    hanging    upside 


Zbc  Xast  IRigbt.  251 

down  on  them.  From  the  string  over 
the  fireplace  dangled  two  pairs  of 
much-darned  stockings. 

' '  Ye'll  put  on  baith  thae  pair  o'  stock- 
in's,  Jamie,"  said  Jess,  "  juist  to  please 
me  ?  " 

When  he  arrived  he  had  rebelled 
against  the  extra  clothing. 

"  Ay,  will  I,  mother.?  "  he  said  now. 

Jess  put  her  hand  fondly  through 
his  ugly  hair.  How  handsome  she 
thought  him  ! 

"Ye  have  a  fine  brow,  Jamie,"  ^e 
said.  "I  mind  the  day  ye  was  born 
sayin'  to  mysel'  at  ye  had  a  fine 
brow. "' 

"  But  ye  thocht  he  was  to  be  a  lassie, 
mother,"  said  Leeby. 

"Na,  Leeby,  I  didna.  I  kept  saym' 
I  thocht  he  would  be  a  lassie  because 
I  was  fleid  he  would  be  ;  but  a'  the 
time  I  had  a  presentiment  he  would  be 
a  laddie.     It  was  wi'  Joey  deein'  sae 


252        B  TlClinOow  in  ^brums» 

sudden,  an'  I  took  on  sae  terrible  aboot 
'im  'at  I  thocht  all  alang-  the  Lord 
would  gie  me  another  laddie." 

"Ay,  I  wanted  'im  to  be  a  laddie 
myser,"said  Hendry,  "so  as  he  could 
tak  Joey's  place." 

Jess'  head  jerked  back  involuntar- 
ily, and  Jamie  may  have  felt  her  hand 
shake,  for  he  said  in  a  voice  out  of 
Hendry's  hearing  : 

"I  never  took  Joey's  place  wi'  ye, 
mother. " 

'Jess  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her 
two  worn  palms,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"Jamie  was  richt  like  Joey  when  he 
was  a  bairn,"  Hendry  said. 

Again  Jess'  head  moved,  but  still  she 
was  silent. 

"They  were  sae  like,"  continued 
Hendry,  "'at  often  I  called  Jamie  by 
Joey's  name." 

Jess  looked  at  her  husband,  and  her 
mouth  opened  and  shut. 


XLbc  Xast  mm*  253 

''I  canna  mind  'at  you  ever  did 
that  ?  "  Hendry  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Na,"  said  Hendry,  "you  never 
mixed  them  up.  I  dinna  think  ye  ever 
missed  Joey  sae  sair  as  I  did." 

Leeby  went  ben,  and  stood  in  the 
room  in  the  dark  ;  Jamie  knew  why. 

"I'll  just  gang  ben  an'  speak  to 
Leeby  for  a  meenute,"  he  said  to  his 
mother  ;    ''  I'll  no  be  lang." 

"Ay,  do  that,  Jamie,"  said  Jess. 
"What  Leeby's  been  to  me  nae  tongue 
can  tell.  Ye  canna  bear  to  hear  me 
speak,  I  ken,  o'  the  time  when  Hen- 
dry an'  me'U  be  awa,  but,  Jamie, 
when  that  time  comes  ye'll  no  forget 
Leeby  ? " 

"I  winna,  mother,  I  winna,"  said 
Jamie.  "There'll  never  be  a  roof 
ower  me  'at's  no  hers  too." 

He  went  ben  and  shut  the  door.  I 
do  not  know  what  he  and  Leeby  said. 


254       ^  MinDow  in  Q:brums. 

Many  a  time  since  their  earliest  youth 
had  these  two  been  closeted  together, 
often  to  make  up  their  little  quarrels 
in  each  other's  arms.  They  remained 
a  long-  time  in  the  room,  the  shabby 
room  of  which  Jess  and  Leeby  were 
so  proud,  and  whatever  might  be  their 
fears  about  their  mother  they  were  not 
anxious  for  themselves.  Leeby  was 
feeling  lusty  and  well,  and  she  could 
not  know  that  Jamie  required  to  be 
reminded  of  his  duty  to  the  folk  at 
home.  Jamie  would  have  laughed  at 
the  notion.  Yet  that  woman  in  Lon- 
don must  have  been  waiting  for  him 
even  then.  Leeby,  who  was  about  to 
die,  and  Jamie,  who  was  to  forget  his 
mother,  came  back  to  the  kitchen  with 
a  happy  light  on  their  faces.  I  have 
with  me  still  the  look  of  love  they  gave 
each  other  before  Jamie  crossed  over 
to  Jess. 

"  Ye'll  gang  anower,  noo,  mother,'' 


ZTbe  OLast  fUMgbt  255 

Leeby  said,  meaning  that  it  was  Jess' 
bed-time. 

''No  yet,  Leeby,"  Jess  answered; 
*'  I'll  sit  up  till  the  readin's  ower. " 

"I  think  ye  should  gang,  mother," 
Jamie  said,  "  an'  I'll  come  an'  sit  aside 
ye  after  ye're  i'  yer  bed. " 

"Ay,  Jamie,  I'll  no  hae  ye  to  sit 
aside  me  the  morn's  nicht,  an'  hap 
(cover)  me  wi'  the  claes." 

''But  ye'll  gang  suner  to  yer  bed, 
mother. " 

"I  may  gang,  but  I  winna  sleep. 
I'll  aye  be  thinkin'  o'  ye  tossin'  on  the 
sea.  I  pray  for  ye  a  lang  time  ilka 
nicht,   Jamie." 

"Ay,  I  ken." 

* '  An'  I  pictur'  ye  ilka  hour  o'  the  day. 
Ye  never  gang  hame  through  thae 
terrible  streets  at  nicht  but  I'm  thinkin' 
o'  ye." 

"I  would  try  no  to  be  sae  sad, 
mother,"  said  Leeby.  "We've  ha'en 
a  richt  fine  time,  have  we  no  ?  " 


256       H  1iminC>ow  in  ^brums* 

"It's  been  an  awfu'  happy  time," 
said  Jess.  "We've  ha'en  a  pleasant- 
ness in  oor  lives  'at  comes  to  few.  I 
ken  naebody  at's  ha'en  sae  muckle 
happiness  one  wy  or  another." 

"It's  because  ye're  sae  guid, 
mother,"  said  Jamie. 

"  Na,  Jamie,  'am  no  guid  ava.  It's 
because  my  fowk's  been  sae  guid,  you 
an'  Hendry  an'  Leeby  an'  Joey  when 
he  was  livin'.  I've  got  a  lot  mairthan 
my  deserts." 

"We'll  juist  look  to  meetin'  next 
year  again,  mother.  To  think  o'  that 
keeps  me  up  a'  the  winter." 

"Ay,  if  it's  the  Lord's  will,  Jamie, 
but  'am  gey  dune  noo,  an'  Hendry's 
fell  worn  too." 

Jamie,  the  boy  that  he  was,  said, 
"Dinna  speak  like  that,  mother,"  and 
Jess  again  put  her  hand  on  his  head. 

"  Fine  I  ken,  Jamie,"  she  said,  "  'at 
all  my  days  on  this  earth,  be  they  short 


^be  Uast  IRlgbt.  257 

or  lang,   I've  you   for  a  staff  to  lean 
on." 

Ah,  many  years  have  gone  since 
then,  but  if  Jamie  be  living  now  he 
has  still  those  words  to  swallow. 

By  and  by  Leeby  went  ben  for  the 
Bible,  and  put  it  into  Hendry's  hands. 
He  slowly  turned  over  the  leaves  to 
his  favorite  chapter,  the  fourteenth  of 
John's  Gospel.  Always,  on  eventful 
occasions,  did  Hendry  turn  to  the 
fourteenth  of  John. 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled; 
ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in  Me. 

"In  My  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions  ;  if  it  were  not  so  I  would 
have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place 
for  you. " 

As  Hendry  raised  his  voice  to  read 
there  was  a  great  stillness  in  the  kitch- 
en. I  do  not  know  that  I  have  been 
able  to  show  in  the  most  imperfect 
Way  what  kind  of  man  Hendry  was. 
17 


258        B  IdinDow  fn  ^brums. 

He  was  dense  in  many  things,  and 
the  cleverness  that  was  Jess'  had  been 
denied  to  him.  He  had  less  book- 
learning  than  most  of  those  with  whom 
he  passed  his  days,  and  he  had  little 
skill  in  talk.  I  have  not  known  a  man 
more  easily  taken  in  by  persons  whose 
speech  had  two  faces.  But  a  more 
simple,  modest,  upright  man  there 
never  was  in  Thrums,  and  I  shall 
always  revere  his  memory. 

"And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place 
for  you,  I  will  come  again,  and  re- 
ceive you  unto  IMyself  ;  that  where  I 
am,  there  ye  may  be  also." 

The  voice  may  have  been  monoto- 
nous. I  have  alwavs  thouo:ht  that 
Hendry's  reading  of  the  Bible  was  the 
most  solemn  and  impressive  I  have 
ever  heard.  He  exulted  in  the  four- 
teenth of  John,  pouring  it  forth  like 
one  whom  it  intoxicated  while  he 
read.      He     emphasized     every    other 


^bc  Xast  Tliabt.  259 

word  ;  it  was    so    real    and    grand    to 
him. 

We  went  upon  our  knees  while 
Hendry  prayed,  all  but  Jess,  who 
could  not  Jamie  buried  his  face  in 
her  lap.  The  words  Hendry  said  were 
those  he  used  every  night.  Some, 
perhaps,  would  have  smiled  at  his 
prayer  to  God  that  we  be  not  puffed 
up  with  riches  nor  with  the  things  of 
this  world.  His  head  shook  with 
emotion  while  he  prayed,  and  he 
brought  us  very  near  to  the  Throne  of 
Grace.  ''Do  Thou,  O  our  God,"  he 
said,  in  conclusion,  "  spread  Thy 
guiding  hand  over  him  whom  in  Thy 
great  mercy  Thou  hast  brought  to  us 
again,  and  do  Thou  guard  him  through 
the  perils  which  come  unto  those  that 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  Let  not 
our  hearts  be  troubled,  neither  let 
them  be  afraid,  for  this  is  notour  abid- 
ing home,   and  may  we   all    meet    in 


26o        B  WinDow  in  ^brums. 

Thy  house,  where  there  are  many 
mansions,  and  where  there  will  be  no 
last  night.     Amen." 

It  was  a  silent  kitchen  after  that, 
though  the  lamp  burned  long  in  Jess' 
window.  By  its  meager  light  you 
may  take  a  final  glance  at  the  little 
family  ;  you  will  never  see  them  to- 
gether again. 


5ess  Xcft  Blone.  261 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

JESS      LEFT      ALONE. 

There  may  be  a  few  who  care  to 
know  how  the  lives  of  Jess  and  Hen- 
dry ended.  Leeby  died  in  the  back- 
end  of  the  year  I  have  been  speaking 
of,  and  as  I  was  snowed  up  in  the 
school-house  at  the  time,  I  heard  the 
news  from  Gavin  Birse  too  late,  to 
attend  her  funeral.  She  got  her  death 
on  the  commonty  one  day  of  sudden 
rain,  when  she  had  run  out  to  bring  in 
her  washing,  for  the  terrible  cold  she 
woke  with  next  morning  carried  her 
off  very  quickly.  Leeby  did  not  blame 
Jamie  for  not  coming  to  her,  nor  did  I, 
for  I  knew  that  even  in  the  presence 
of   death   the    poor   must    drag    their 


262        B  WinDow  in  c:brums. 

chains.  He  never  got  Hendry's  letter 
with  the  news,  and  we  know  now 
that  he  was  already  in  the  hands  of 
her  who  played  the  devil  with  his  life. 
Before  the  spring  came  he  had  been 
lost  to  Jess. 

''Them  'at  has  got  sae  mony  bless- 
in's  mair  than  the  generality,"  Hendry 
said  to  me  one  day,  when  Craigie- 
buckle  had  given  me  a  lift  into  Thrums, 
"has  nae  shame  if  they  would  pray 
aye  for  mair.  The  Lord  has  gi'en  this 
hoose  sae  muckle,  'at  to  pray  for  mair 
looks  like  no  bein'  thankfu'  for  what 
we've  got.  Ay,  but  I  canna  help 
prayin'  to  Him  'at  in  His  great  mercy 
He'll  tak  Jess  afore  me.  Noo  'at 
Leeby's  gone,  an'  Jamie  never  lets  us 
hear  frae  him,  I  canna  gulp  doon  the 
thocht  o'  Jess  bein'  left  alane. " 

This  was  a  prayer  that  Hendry  may 
be  pardoned  for  having  so  often  in  his 
heart,  though  God  did  not  think  fit  to 


5ess  Xett  Blone.  263 

grant  it.  In  Thrums,  when  a  weaver 
died,  his  womenfolk  had  to  take  his 
seat  at  the  loom,  and  those  who,  by 
reason  of  infirmities,  could  not  do  so, 
went  to  a  place,  the  name  of  which, 
I  thank  God,  I  am  not  compelled  to 
write  in  this  chapter.  I  could  not, 
even  at  this  day,  have  told  any  epi- 
sodes in  the  life  of  Jess  had  it  ended 
in  the  poor-house. 

Hendry  would  probably  have  re- 
covered from  the  fever  had  not  this 
terrible  dread  darkened  his  intellect 
when  he  was  still  prostrate.  He  was 
lying-  in  the  kitchen  when  I  saw  him 
last  in  life,  and  his  parting  words  must 
be  sadder  to  the  reader  than  they  were 
to  me. 

"Ah,  richt  ye  are,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  that  had  become  a  child s  ;  "I 
hae  muckle,  muckle,  to  be  thankfu'for, 
an'  not  the  least  in  at  baith  me  an' 
Jess  has  aye  belonged  to  a  bural  society. 


264        ^  llClinDow  in  C:brum6. 

We  hae  nae  cause  to  be  anxious  aboot 
a'  thing  bein'  dune  respectable  aince 
we're  gone.  It  was  Jess  'at  insisted 
on  oor  joinin'  :  a'  the  wisest  things  I 
ever  did  I  was  put  up  to  by  her." 

I  parted  from  Hendry,  cheered  by 
the  doctor's  report,  but  the  old  weaver 
died  a  few  days  afterward.  His  end 
was  mournful,  yet  I  can  recall  it  now 
as  the  not  unworthy  close  of  a  good 
man's  life.  One  night  poor  worn  Jess 
had  been  helped  ben  into  the  room, 
Tibbie  Birse  having  undertaken  to  sit 
up  with  Hendry.  Jess  slept  for  the  first 
time  for  many  days,  and  as  the  night 
was  dying  Tibbie  fell  asleep  too.  Hen- 
dry had  been  better  than  usual,  lying 
quietly,  Tibbie  said,  and  the  fever  was 
gone.  About  three  o'clock  Tibbie 
woke  and  rose  to  mend  the  fire.  Then 
she  saw  that  Hendry  was  not  in  his  ^ed. 

Tibbie  went  ben  the  house  ir  ^*^r 
stocking-soles,  but  Jess  heard  her 


5e60  Xeft  Blone.  265 

"  What  is't,  Tibbie  ?  "  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"Ou,  it's  no  naething,"  Tibbie  said, 
*'  he's  lyin'  rale  quiet." 

Then  she  went  up  to  the  attic.  Hen- 
dry was  not  in  the  house. 

She  opened  the  door  gently  and  stole 
out.  It  was  not  snowing,  but  there 
had  been  a  heavy  fall  two  days  before, 
and  the  night  was  windy.  A  tearing 
gale  had  blown  the  upper  part  of  the 
brae  clear,  and  from  T'nowhead's  fields 
the  snow  was  rising  like  smoke.  Tib- 
bie ran  to  the  farm  and  woke  up 
T'nowhead. 

For  an  hour  they  looked  in  vain  for 
Hendry.  At  last  some  one  asked  who 
was  working  in  Elshioner's  shop  all 
night.  This  was  the  long  earthen- 
floored  room  in  which  Hendry's  loom 
stood  w^ith  three  others. 

"  It'll  be  Sanders  Whamond  likely," 
T'nowhead  said,  and  the  other  men 
nodded. 


266       B  "Minnow  in  ^brume. 

But  it  happened  that  T'nowhead's 
Bell,  who  hacl  flung  on  a  wrapper,  and 
hastened  across  to  sit  with  Jess,  heard 
of  the  light  in  Elshioner's  shop. 

"It's  Hendry,'' she  cried,  and  then 
every  one  moved  toward  the  workshop. 

The  light  at  the  diminutive,  yarn- 
covered  window  was  pale  and  dim  ;  but 
Bell,  who  was  at  the  house  first,  could 
make  the  most  of  a  cruizey  s  glimmer. 

"  It's  him,"  she  said,  and  then,  with 
swelling  throat,  she  ran  back  to  Jess. 

The  door  of  the  workshop  was  wide 
open,  held  against  the  wall  by  the  wind. 
T'nowhead  and  the  others  went  in. 
The  cruizey  stood  on  the  little  window. 
Hendry's  back  was  to  the  door,  and 
he  was  leaning  forward  on  the  silent 
loom.  He  had  been  dead  for  some 
time,  but  his  fellow-workers  saw  that  he 
must  have  w.eaved  for  nearly  an  hour. 

So  it  came  about  that  for  the  last 
few  months  of  her  pilgrimage  Jess  was 


Jess  Xeft  aionc.  267 

left  alone.  Yet  I  may  not  say  that 
she  was  alone.  Jamie,  who  should 
have  been  with  her,  was  undergoing" 
his  own  ordeal  far  away  ;  where,  we 
did  not  now  even  know.  But  though 
the  poor-house  stands  in  Thrums,  where 
all  may  see  it,  the  neighbors  did  not 
think  only  of  themselves. 

Than  Tammas  Haggart  there  can 
scarcely  have  been  a  poorer  man,  but 
Tammas  was  the  first  to  come  forward 
with  offer  of  help.  To  the  day  of  Jess' 
death  he  did  not  once  fail  to  carry  her 
water  to  her  in  the  morning,  and  the 
luxuriously-living  men  of  Thrums,  in 
these  present  days  of  pumps  at  every 
corner,  can  hardly  realize  what  that 
meant.  Often  there  were  lines  of 
people  at  the  well  by  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  each  had  to  wait  his 
turn.  Tammas  filled  his  o\yn  pitcher 
and  pan,  and  then  had  to  take  his  place 
at  the  end  of  the  line  with  Jess'  pitcher 


268       H  MinDow  in  ^brume. 

and  pan,  to  wait  his  turn  again.  His 
own  house  was  in  the  Tenements,  far 
from  the  brae  in  winter  time,  but  he 
always  said  to  Jess  it  was  "  naething 
ava. " 

Every  Saturday  old  Robbie  Angus 
sent  a  bag  of  sticks  and  shavings  from 
the  saw-mill  by  his  little  son  Rob,  who 
was  afterward  to  become  a  man  for 
speaking  about  at  nights.  Of  all  the 
friends  that  Jess  and  Hendry  had, 
T'nowhead  was  the  ablest  to  help, 
and  the  sweetest  memory  I  have  of 
the  farmer  and  his  wife  is  the  delicate 
way  they  offered  it.  You  who  read 
will  see  Jess  wince  at  the  offer  of 
charity.  But  the  poor  have  fine  feel- 
ings beneath  the  grime,  as  you  will 
discover  if  you  care  to  look  for  them  ; 
and  when  Jess  said  she  would  bake 
if  any  one  would  buy,  you  would  won- 
der to  hear  how  many  kindly  folk  came 
to  her  door  for  scones. 


5e06  %ctt  Blone.  269 

She  had  the  house  to  herself  at 
nights,  but  Tibbie  Birse  was  with  her 
early  in  the  morning,  and  other  neigh- 
bors dropped  in.  Not  for  long  did  she 
have  to  wait  the  summons  to  the 
better  home. 

"  Na,"  she  said  to  the  minister,  who 
has  told  me  that  he  was  a  better  man 
from  knowing  her,  "my  thochts  is  no 
nane  set  on  the  vanities  o'  the  world 
noo.  I  kenna  hoo  I  could  ever  hae 
haen  sic  an  ambeetion  to  hae  thae 
stuff-bottomed  chairs. " 

I  have  tried  to  keep  away  from  Jamie, 
whom  the  neighbors  sometimes  up- 
braided in  her  presence.  It  is  of  him 
you  who  read  would  like  to  hear,  and 
I  cannot  pretend  that  Jess  did  not  sit 
at  her  window  looking  for  him. 

"Even  when  she  was  bakin','' Tib- 
bie told  me,  "she  aye  had  an  eye  on 
the  brae.  If  Jamie  had  come  at  ony 
time  when  it  was  licht  she  would  hae 


270       "B  Window  In  ^brums. 

seen  'im  as  sune  as  he  turned  the 
corner. " 

"If  he  ever  comes  back,  the  sacket 
^(rascal),"  T'nowhead  said  to  Jess, 
"we'll  show  'im  the  door  gey  quick." 

Jess  just  looked,  and  all  the  women 
Icnew  how  she  would  take  Jamie  to 
her  arms. 

We  did  not  know  of  the  London 
^woman  then,  and  Jess  never  knew  of 
her.  Jamie's  mother  never  for  an  hour 
allowed  that  he  had  become  anything- 
l)ut  the  loving  laddie  of  his  youth. 

"I  ken  "im  ower  weel,"  she  always 
said,   "  my  ain  Jamie." 

Toward  the  end  she  was  sure  he 
was  dead.  I  do  not  know  when  she 
first  made  up  her  mind  to  this,  or 
whether  it  was  not  merely  a  phrase 
for  those  who  wanted  to  discuss  him 
with  her.  I  know  that  she  still  sat 
at  the  window  looking  at  the  elbow 
of  the  brae. 


Sees  Xeft  Blone.  271 

The  minister  was  with  her  when  she 
died.  She  was  in  her  chair,  and  he 
asked  her,  as  was  his  custom,  if  there 
was  any  particular  chapter  which  she 
would  like  him  to  read.  Since  her 
husbands  death  she  had  always  askec^ 
for  the  fourteenth  of  John,  "  Hendry'y 
chapter,"  as  it  is  still  called  among  a 
very  few  old  people  in  Thrums  This 
time  she  asked  him  to  read  the  six- 
teenth chapter  of  Genesis. 

' '  When  I  came  to  the  thirteenth 
verse,"  the  minister  told  me,  "'And 
she  called  the  name  of  the  Lord  that 
spake  unto  her,  Thou  God  seest  me,' 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  two 
hands,  and  said,  'Joey  s  text,  Joey's  text. 
Oh,  but  I  grudged  ye  sair,  Joey.'  " 

"  I  shut  the  book,"  the  minister  said, 
"when  I  came  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter, and  then  I  saw  that  she  was  dead. 
It  is  my  belief  that  her  heart  broke 
one-and-twenty  years  ago." 


272       B  MinDow  in  ^brums. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Jamie's  home-coming. 

On  a  summer  day,  when  the  sun 
was  in  the  weavers'  workshops,  and 
bairns  hopped  solemnly  at  the  game  of 
palaulays,  or  gayly  shook  their  bottles 
of  sugarelly  water  into  a  froth,  Jamie 
came  back.  The  first  man  to  see  him 
was  Hookey  Crewe,  the  post. 

"When  he  came  frae  London," 
Hookey  said  afterward  at  T'nowhead's 
pig-sty,  "Jamie  used  to  wait  for  me 
at  Zoar,  i'  the  north  end  o'  Tilliedrum. 
He  carried  his  box  ower  the  market 
muir,  an'  sat  on't  at  Zoar,  waitin'  for 
me  to  catch  'im  up.  Ay,  the  day  afore 
yesterday  me  an'  the  powny  was  clat- 


Sarnie's  IbomcsComing.        273 

terin'  by  Zoar,  when  there  was  Jamie 
standin'  in  his  identical  place.  He 
hadna  nae  box  to  sit  upon,  an'  he  was 
far  frae  bein'  weel  in  order,  but  I  kent 
'im  at  aince,  an'  I  saw  'at  he  was 
vvaitin'  for  me.  So  I  drew  up,  an' 
waved  my  hand  to  'im. " 

'*I  would  hae  drove  straucht  by 
'im, "  said  T'nowhead  ;  "them  'at 
leaves  their  auld  mother  to  want 
doesna  deserve  a  lift." 

"Ay,  ye  say  that  sittin'  there," 
Hookey  said;  "but,  lads,  I  saw  his 
face,  an'  as  sure  as  death  it  was  sic 
an'  awfu'  meeserable  face  'at  I  couldna 
but  pu'  the  powny  up.  Weel,  he 
stood  for  the  space  o'  a  meenute 
lookin'  straucht  at  me,  as  if  he  would 
like  to  come  forrit  but  dauredna,  an' 
syne  he  turned  an'  strided  awa  ower 
the  muir  like  a  huntit  thing.  I  sat  still 
i'  the  cart,  an'  when  he  was  far  awa 
he  stoppit  an'  lookit  again,  but  a'  my 
iS 


2  74       ^  liClinDow  in  ^brums. 

cryin'  wouldna  bring  him  a  step  back, 
an'  i'  the  end  I  drove  on.  I've  thocht 
since  syne  'at  he  didna  ken  whether 
his  fowk  was  livin'  or  deid,  an'  was 
fleid  to  speir." 

"He  didna  ken,"  said  T'nowhead, 
''but  the  faut  was  his  ain.  It's  ower 
late  to  be  taen  up  aboot  Jess  noo." 

"Ay,  ay,  T'nowhead,"  said  Hookey, 
''it's  aisy  to  you  to  speak  like  that 
Ye  didna  see  his  face." 

It  is  believed  that  Jamie  walked 
from  •Tilliedrum,  though  no  one  is 
known  to  have  met  him  on  the  road. 
Some  two  hours  after  the  post  left  him, 
he  was  seen  by  old  Rob  Angus  at  the 
saw-mill. 

"  I  was  sawin'  awa  wi'  a'  my 
micht,"  Rob  said,  "an'  little  Rob  was 
haudin'  the  booards,  for  they  were 
silly  but  things,  when  something  made 
me  look  at  the  window.  It  couldna 
hae  been  a  tap  on't,  for  the  birds  has 


^amic*5  1bomc*Gomina.       275 

used  me  to  that,  an'  it  would  hardly 
be  a  shadow,  for  little  Rob  didna  look 
up.  Whatever  it  was  I  stoppit  i'  the 
middle  o'  a  booard,  an'  lookit  up,  an* 
there  I  saw  Jamie  IMcQumpha.  He 
joukit  back  when  our  een  met,  but  I 
saw  him  weel ;  ay,  it's  a  queer  thing 
to  say,  but  he  had  the  face  o'  a  man 
'at  had  come  straucht  frae  hell." 

''I  stood  starin'  at  the  window," 
Angus  continued,  ''after  he'd  gone, 
an'  Robbie  cried  oot  to  ken  what  was 
the  maiter  wi'  me.  Ay,  that  brocht 
me  back  to  mysel',  an'  I  hurried  oot 
to  look  for  Jamie,  but  he  wasna  to  be 
seen.     That  face  gae  me  a  turn." 

From  the  saw-mill  to  the  house  at 
the  top  of  the  brae,  some  may  remem- 
ber, the  road  is  up  the  commonty.  I 
do  not  think  any  one  saw  Jamie  on 
the  commonty,  though  there  were 
those  to  say  they  met  him. 

**He  gae  me  sic  a  look,"  a  woman 


2-6        a  XQin^ow  in  Cbrurn^. 

said,  ""at  I  was  fleid  an*  ran  hame," 
but  she  did  not  tell  the  story  until 
Jamie's  home-coming-  had  become  a 
legend. 

There  were  many  women  hanging 
out  their  washing  on  the  commonty 
that  day,  and  none  of  them  saw  him. 
I  think  Jamie  must  have  approached 
his  old  home  by  the  fields,  and  proba- 
bly he  held  back  until  gloaming. 

The  young  woman  who  was  now 
mistress  of  the  house  at  the  top  of 
the  brae  both  saw  and  spoke  with 
Jamie. 

*'  Twa  or  three  times,"  she  said,  *'  I 
had  seen  a  man  walk  quick  up  the 
brae  an'  by  the  door.  It  was  gettin' 
dark,  but  I  noticed  'at  he  was  short 
an'  thin,  an'  I  would  hae  said  he 
wasna  nane  weel  if  it  hadna  been  'at  he 
gaed  by  at  sic  a  steek.  He  didna  look 
our  wy — at  least  no  when  he  was  close 
up,  an'  I  set  im  doon  for  some  ga  en 


Jamie's  f)ome*Coming.        277 

aboot  body.  Xa,  I  saw  naething 
aboot  'im  to  be  fleid  at. 

"The  aucht  o'clock  bell  was  ringin' 
when  I  saw  'im  to  speak  to.  My  twa- 
year-auld  bairn  was  standin'  aboot  the 
door,  an'  I  was  makkin"  some  porridge 
for  my  man's  supper  when  I  heard  the 
baimy  skirlin'.  She  came  runnin"  in 
to  the  hoose  an'  hung  i'  my  wrapper, 
an'  she  was  hingin,  there,  when  I  gaed 
to  the  door  to  see  what  was  wrang. 

''It  was  the  man  I'd  seen  passin' 
the  hoose.  He  was  standin"  at  the 
gate,  which,  as  a'body  kens,  is  but 
sax  steps  frae  the  hoose,  an'  I  won- 
dered at  im  neither  runnin'  awa  nor 
comin'  forrit  I  speired  at  "im  what 
he  meant  by  terrifyin'  a  bairn,  but  he 
didna  say  naething.  He  juist  stood. 
It  was  ower  dark  to  see  his  face  richt, 
an'  I  wasna  nane  ta'en  aback  yet,  no 
till  he  spoke.  Oh,  but  he  had  a  fear- 
some  word   when   he   did  speak     It 


278       B  minOow  in  ^brums. 

was  a  kind  o'  like  a  man  hoarse  wi'  a 
cauld,  an'  yet  no  that  either. 

"  '  Wha  bides  i"  this  hoose  ?  '  he  said, 
aye  standin'  there. 

"  'It's  Davit  Patullos  hoose,'  I  said, 
*  an'  'am  the  wife. ' 

"  '  Whaur's  Hendry  ]\IcQumpha  ? '  he 
speired. 

"  '  He's  deid.'I  said. 

"  He  stood  still  for  a  fell  while. 

*'  '  An"  his  wife,  Jess  ? '  he  said. 

"■  'She's  deid,  too,'  I  said. 

"  I  thocht  he  gae  a. groan,  but  it  may 
hae  been  the  gate. 

"  '  There  was  a  dochter,  Leeby  ? '  he 
said. 

"  'Ay,'  I  said,  'she  was  ta'en  first' 

"I  saw  'im  put  up  his  hands  to  his 
face,  an'  he  cried  oot,  *  Leeby  too  ! '  an' 
syne  he  kind  o'  fell  agin  the  dyke.  I 
never  kent  'im  nor  nane  o'  his  fowk, 
but  I  had  heard  aboot  them,  an'  I  saw 
at  it  would  be  the  son  frae  London. 


5amic's  t)omesCominG.       279 

It  wasna  for  me  to  judge  "im,  an'  I  said 
to  'im  would  he  no  come  in  by  an'  tak 
a  rest.  I  was  nearer  'im  by  that  time, 
an'  it's  an  awfu'  haver  to  say  'at  he 
had  a  face  to  frichten  fowk.  It  was  a 
rale  guid  face,  but  no  ava  what  a  body 
would  like  to  see  on  a  young  man.  I 
felt  mair  like  greetin'  mysel'  when  I 
saw  his  face  than  drawin'  awa  frae 
'im. 

"  But  he  wouldna  come  in.  '  Rest/ 
he  said,  like  ane  speakin'  to  'im- 
sel',  '  na,  there's  nae  mair  rest  for  me.' 
I  didna  weel  ken  w^hat  mair  to  say  to 
'im,  for  he  aye  stood  on,  an'  I  wasna 
even  sure  'at  he  saw  me.  He  raised 
his  heid  when  he  heard  me  tellin'  the 
bairn  no  to  tear  my  wrapper. 

"  '  Dinna  set  yer  heart  ower  muckle 
on  that  bairn,'  he  cried  oot,  sharp  like. 
'  I  was  aince  like  her,  an'  I  used  to  hing 
aboot  my  mother,  too,  in  that  very 
road  •      Ay,  I  thocht  I  was  fond  o'  her. 


28o 


21  MinDow  in  Zbtwrne, 


an'  she  thocht  it  too.  Tak  a  care, 
wuman,  'at  that  bairn  doesna  grow 
up  to  murder  ye.' 

'*He  gae  a  lauch  when  he  saw  me 
tak  haud  o'  the  bairn,  an'  syne  a'  at 
aince  he  gaed  awa  quick.  But  he 
wasna  far  doon  the  brae  when  he 
turned  an'  came  back. 

"'Ye'll,  mebbe,  tell  me,' he  said, 
richt  low,  'if  ye  hae  the  furniture  'at 
used  to  be  my  mother's  ?  ' 

"  '  Na,'  I  said,  'it  was  roupit,  an'  I 
kenna  whaur  the  things  gaed,  for  me 
an'  my  man  comes  frae  Tillidrum.' 

"  'Ye  wouldna  hae  heard,'  he  said, 
*wha  got  the  muckle  airm-chair  'at 
used  to  sit  i'  the  kitchen  i'  the  win- 
dow 'at  looks  ower  the  brae  ? ' 

"'I  couldna  be  sure,'  I  said,  'but 
there  was  an  airm-chair  'at  gaed  to 
Tibbie  Birse.  If  it  was  the  ane  ye 
mean,  it  a'  gaed  to  bits,  an'  I  think  they 
burned  it.     It  was  gey  dune.' 


Jamie's  1bome*(Iomm0.        281 

"  *Ay/  he  said,   'it  was  gey  dune/ 

"  'There  was  the  chairs  ben  i'  the 
room,'  he  said  after  a  while. 

"I  said  I  thocht  Sanders  Elshioner 
had  got  them  at  a  bargain,  because  twa 
o'  them  was  mended  wi'  glue,  an'  gey 
silly, 

''  'Ay,  that's  them,'  he  said,  'they 
were  richt  neat  mended.  It  was  my 
mother  "at  glued  them.  I  mind  o' 
her  makkin'  the  glue,  an'  warnin'  me 
an'  my  father  no  to  sit  on  them. 
There  was  the  clock  too,  an'  the  stool 
*at  my  mother  got  oot  an'  into  her  bed 
wi',  an'  the  basket  'at  Leeby  carried 
when  she  gaed  the  errands.  The  straw 
was  aff  the  handle,  an'  my  father 
mended  it  wi'  strings.' 

**  *I  dinna  ken,'  I  said,  '  whaur  nane 
o'  thae  gaed  ;  but  did  yer  mother  hae 
a  staff.?' 

"  '  A  little  staff, '  he  said  ;  '  it  was  near 
black  wi'  age.     She  couldna  gang  frae 


282       U  TIHlln&ow  fn  ^brum6. 

the  bed  to  her  chair  withoot  it.  It  was 
broadened  oot  at  the  foot  wi'  her  lean- 
in'  on't  sae  muckle.' 

"'I've  heard  tell,'  I  said,  ''at  the 
dominie  up  i'  Glen  Quharity  took  awa 
the  staff.' 

"He  didna  speir  for  nae  other  thing. 
He  had  the  gate  in  his  hand,  but  I  din- 
na  think  he  kent  'at  he  was  swingin'  't 
back  an'  forrit.     At  last  he  let  it  go. 

"  'That's  a',' he  said,  'I  maun  awa. 
Good-nicht'  an'  thank  ye  kindly.' 

"I  watched  'im  till  he  gaed  oot  o' 
sicht.      He  gaed  doon  the  brae." 

We  learned  afterward  from  the  grave- 
digger  that  some  one  spent  great 
part  of  that  night  in  the  graveyard,  and 
we  beheve  it  to  have  been  Jamie.  He 
walked  up  the  glen  to  the  school-house 
next  forenoon,  and  I  went  out  to  meet 
him  when  I  saw  him  coming  down  the 
path. 

' '  Ay,"  he  said,  ' '  it's  me  come  back. " 


5amic'5  1bomesComing»       283 

I  wanted  to  take  him  into  the  house 
and  speak  with  him  of  his  mother,  but 
he  would  not  cross  the  threshold. 

' '  I  came  oot, "  he  said,  ' '  to  see  if  ye 
would  gie  me  her  staff — no  'at  I  de- 
serve 't. " 

I  brought  out  the  staff  and  handed 
it  to  him,  thinking  that  he  and  I  would 
soon  meet  again.  As  he  took  it  I  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  sunk  back  into  his 
head.  Two  great  tears  hung  on  his 
eyelids,  and  his  mouth  closed  in  agony. 
He  stared  at  me  till  the  tears  fell  upon 
his  cheeks,  and  then  he  went  away. 

That  evening  he  was  seen  by  many 
persons  crossing  the  square.  He  went 
up  the  brae  to  his  old  home,  and  asked 
leave  to  go  through  the  house  for  the 
last  time.  First  he  climbed  up  into 
the  attic,  and  stood  looking  in,  his  feet 
still  on  the  stair.  Then  he  came  down 
and  stood  at  the  door  of  the  room,  but 
he  went  into  the  kitchen. 


284        ^  MinDow  in  ^brums* 

' '  I'll  ask  one  last  favor  o'  ye, "  he  said 
to  the  woman  :  ''I  would  like  ye  to 
leave  me  here  alane  for  juist  a  little 
while." 

"I  gaed  oot,"  the  woman  said, 
''meanin'  to  leave  'im  to  'imsel',  but 
my  bairn  wouldna  come,  an'  he  said, 
'Never  mind  her,'  so  I  left  her  wi'  'im, 
an'  closed  the  door.  He  was  in  a  lang 
time,  but  I  never  kent  what  he  did,  for 
the  bairn  juist  aye  greets  when  I  speir 
at  her. 

''I  watched  'im  frae  the  corner  win- 
dow gang  doon  the  brae  till  he  came  to 
the  corner.  I  thocht  he  turned  round 
there  an'  stood  lookin'  at  the  hoose. 
He  would  see  me  better  than  I  saw 
him,  for  my  lamp  was  i'  the  window, 
whaur  I've  heard  tell  his  mother  keepit 
her  cruizey.  When  my  man  came  in 
I  speired  at  'im  if  he'd  seen  onybody 
standin'  at  the  corner  o'  the  brae,  an' 
he  said  he  thocht  he'd  seen  somebody 


Jamie's  IbomesCominQ.       285 

wi'  a  little  staff  in  his  hand.  Davit  gaed 
doon  to  see  if  he  was  aye  there  after 
supper-time,  but  he  was  gone. " 

Jamie    was    never    again    seen    in 
Thrums. 


THE  END. 


XLbc  aitcmus  OLibratis. 

A  choice  collection  of  Standard  and  Popular  books, 
handsomely  printed  on  fine  paper,  from  large  clear  type, 
and  bound  in  faultless  styles  in  handy  volume  size : 

1.  Sesame  and  Lilies.     3  Lectures.    By  John  Ruskin. 

I.  Of  King's  Treasuries. 
II.  Of  Queen's  Gardens. 
III.  Of  the  Mystery  of  Life. 

2.  The  Pleasures  of  Life.     By  Sir   John  Lubbock. 

Complete  in  one  volume.     (Contains  the  list  of 
TAe  100  Besi  Books.) 

3.  The  Essays  of  Lord  Francis  Bacon,  with  Memoirs 

and  Notes. 

4.  Thoughts  of  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius  Anto- 

ninus.    Translated  by  George  Long. 

5.  A  Selection  from  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus,  with 

the  Encheridion.     Translated  by  George  Long. 

6.  Essays,  Fii-st  Series.      Ey  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

7.  'Essd.ys,  Second  Series.     By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

8.  Cranford.     By  Mrs  Gaskell. 

9.  Of  the  Imitation    of   Christ.     Four  books   com- 

plete in  one  volume.     By  Thomas  A'Kempis. 

10.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     By  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

11.  Letters,  Sentences  and  Maxims.     By   Lord  Ches- 

terfield.    "  Masterpieces   of    good    taste,  good 
writing,  and  good  sense." 

12.  The  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow.     A  book 

for  an  Idle  Holiday.     By  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 

13.  Tales  from  Shakespeare.     By  Charles  and   Mary 

Lamb,   with   an  introduction   by   Rev.   Alfred 
Ainger,  M.  A. 

(375) 


TOe  aitemus  Xibrari?. 

14.  Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World.     By  Henrj 

Drummond,  F.  R.  S.  E.,  F.  G.  S.  The  rela- 
tions of  Science  and  Religion  clearly  expounded. 

15.  Addresses.     By  Henry  Drummond,  F.  R.  S.  E., 

F.  G.  S.  The  Greatest  Thing  in  the  World ; 
PaxVobiscum;  The  Changed  Life;  How  to 
Learn  How;  Dealing  with  Doubt;  Prepara- 
tion for  Learning ;  What  is  a  Christian  ?  The 
Study  of  the  Bible ;  A  Talk  on  Books. 

16.  *'  My  Point  of  View."     Representative  selections 

from  the  works  of  Professor  Drummond.  By 
William  Shepard. 

17.  The  Scarlet  Letter.     By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

18.  Representative  Men.     Seven  lectures.     By  Ralph 

Waldo  Emerson. 

19.  My  King  and  His  Service.     By  Frances  Ridley 

Havergal.  Containing — My  King;  Royal 
Commandments;  Royal  Bounty;  Royal  Invi- 
tation ;  Loyal  Responses. 

20.  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.     By  Ik  Marvel.     A  Book 

of  the  Heart. 

21.  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.     By  Nathaniel 

Hawthorne. 

22.  Dream    Life.     By   Ik    Marvel.      A   Companion 

volume  to  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor. 

23.  Rab  and    His   Friends,   Marjorie  Fleming,   etc. 

By  John  Brown. 

24.  Essays  of  Elia.     By  Charles  Lamb. 

25.  Sartor  Resartus.     By  Thomas  Carlyle. 

26.  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.     By  Thomas  Carlyle, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


B     000  011  051     0 


